Promises to Keep
by CyberKath
Summary: Sara MacKensie finds a dead man in the woods near her home. Not only will the man - Duncan MacLeod,of course - not stay dead,he involves her in his attempt rescue two kidnap victims from a gang of survivalists who have taken over her home.
1. Promises to Keep Chapter 1

The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well.  
  
They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.   
  
This story is mine as are characters of Sara Jane MacKensie, Wolfgang Kroeger and various minor players - so please don't take them anywhere without letting me know.   
  
*****************************  
  
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,  
  
But I promises to keep,  
  
And miles to go before I sleep.  
  
And miles to go before I sleep."  
  
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening - Robert Frost  
  
Danny Chou sat perfectly still and concentrated on the sounds that filled the night. Crickets chirped. Katydids chattered. A slight breeze whispered through the leaves. His heart thumped against his breast bone. Something had snatched him from a sound sleep. Something he'd heard. Something he'd felt. He didn't know what had caused him to wake with such a start, but it left an uneasy residue.  
  
Next to him, Mei Lin slept, curled on her side, breathing slow and steady. Love for his wife filled his heart and soothed his jangled nerves. He ran his hand over her long silken hair. She stirred, but continued to sleep. Once more, he tuned into the night sounds of the forest. Normal sounds, he supposed. Country sounds, alien to a city boy's ears. Bustling traffic, sirens wailing and garbage trucks whining their way through the streets at 5 a.m. - those were the sounds that usually lulled him to sleep. He chuckled, then he nestled down into his sleeping bag, again.  
  
He had just slipped under the edge of sleep when rough hands dragged him from the tent. He barely had time to inhale when the first fist slammed into his face. The snap of his cheek bone breaking added nausea to the toxic brew of pain and confusion. More fists and a club pummeled his back, and he curled to protect himself from being kicked in the stomach.  
  
"Stop ... please stop," he pleaded, gasping for air as one of several pairs of boots found a target at the base of his spine. *Mei Lin* ... *Kim*. He lifted his head to search for signs of his wife and daughter, but another blow brought it down. Screams of terror sliced into his heart. *I must protect them ... I must*. He fought for the strength to get up, but he couldn't move, and the men continued to beat him.  
  
A harsh voice rasped close to his ear, "Filthy gook - you should have stayed where you belong." Then the sharp point of a knife pierced his side. And another ... And another.  
  
The last thing Danny Chou remembered before the dark oblivion sucked him under was the searing agony of the knife wounds ... and screams fading into silence.  
  
****  
  
Sara's foot slipped off a wet rock and into the water. Tensing the muscles in her other leg, she flung her arms wide and held her balance. Only the good boots she wore prevented her from twisting her ankle. She glanced at her watch, and realized she'd been hiking for more than four hours - time for a break. Leaning against a large boulder near the edge of the stream, she took a long swallow from her water bottle, then closed her eyes.  
  
The morning sun angled through the cover of fragrant pines to warm her face. Peace and rush of euphoria swirled around her like a warm mist as the soft chorus of the forest enveloped her. A slight breeze sighed its way through the leaves. The stream gurgled as clear water danced over rocks. Birds chattered and chirped as they went about their daily tasks. Then human voices broke through the murmur of the forest - angry voices coming from the top of the cliff behind her.  
  
Sara opened her eyes and frowned. An unintelligible shout tinged with fear echoed over the valley, chilling her on this warm day. Branches snapped. Something heavy crashed through them as it cleared a path, then landed with a muffled, but sickening thump. The silence closed in, then the natural sounds of the forest resumed.  
  
Fear gnawed at Sara's gut. For seconds that felt like centuries, she couldn't move. She held her breath until it threatened to burst her lungs. She strained her ears listening for more foreign sounds, but heard nothing except a faint rustling of the brush. Disturbed by human passage? Or just the wind? She couldn't tell. She moved cautiously away from the shelter of the boulder and looked up. Nothing.  
  
Following the direction of the sounds, she edged carefully around an outcropping of rock to her right. She found no evidence of human activity here either. Picking her way among the rocks that littered the edge of the stream, she moved into the small clearing. She examined the band of sand that hemmed the rushing water, then the cliff itself with a critical glance. Something had fallen from the top. Something big enough to make quite a racket. It had to be here. Then she saw it. About a third of the way up, a ledge jutted out from the nearly sheer surface. An arm swathed in blue cloth dangled over the edge.  
  
Like waves tossed upon the shore by an angry sea, questions sprang up to batter her brain. Male or female? Dead or alive? Accident or malicious action? Was she in danger?  
  
Stunned, she stood motionless and listened again, then she swept another glance over the cliff. Her senses whispered that she was alone. She hoped they were right, then her instincts kicked in and spurred her to action.  
  
A few steps across the sand brought her to the base of the cliff. There she shrugged off her backpack and dug out her climbing gear. A skilled climber, she reached the ledge in minutes. Pausing a moment with her hand on the edge, she took a deep breath to steel herself for the sight she was sure to face.  
  
"Come on Sara," she scolded, speaking aloud to bolster her courage. "You've seen blood and gore before."  
  
Images of other bodies flashed before her as she hauled herself up onto the ledge. Doing research at the hospital and in the morgue, she'd seen them all - accident victims, crime victims - mostly all dead or injured from something other than natural causes. The things a writer had to do to inject a little authenticity into her work.  
  
The ledge was larger than it appeared from the ground, but the body left little maneuvering room. Seeing no other option, she swallowed the slight nausea that rose in her throat, then dragged herself over the lifeless form.  
  
She knelt next to it as she slipped the extra rope from her shoulder. He was dead all right. No doubt about that. *Damn shame*, came a response from someplace deep within her - someplace a lot lower than her brain. She shook her head as she gazed down at what was still a handsome face despite a deep gash near the hairline, various other cuts and bruises too numerous to inventory.  
  
A dark red stain crept over the rock beneath his head. She shifted her knee to avoid it. *Probably a broken skull.* She shuddered. And judging from the angle of the body, a broken back as well. Hoping her eyes were deceiving her, she reached for his throat to check for a pulse. Long dark hair tickled her fingers, but they found no life-sustaining throb.  
  
Feeling like an intruder, she searched his pockets for some identification. She found nothing in the front pockets except three quarters, two nickels, a dime and half a roll of spearmint Lifesavers with green and silver foil smoothly tucked around the open end. Taking care not to look at the substantial wound at the back of his head, she rolled him toward her onto his side. *Paydirt!* In the back pocket of his pants, she found a comb and a black leather wallet. She pulled the wallet out carefully, then flipped it open.  
  
*Five hundred and forty-seven dollars ... in cash!* She whistled as she thumbed through the thick wad of bills, then glanced at the few slips of paper she found. The neat, precise script offered an address here, a name and a phone number there, but most of the jottings were too cryptic to mean anything except to their author, however, the carefully folded receipt for a T'ang Dynasty bowl whetted her curiosity. She lifted an eyebrow at the number of zeros in the handwritten price, but as intriguing as it was, it didn't identify the man lying before her.  
  
The only photo - slightly faded and worn around the edges as though it was frequently handled - showed an attractive blonde woman standing next to a black T-bird. * Wife?* *Girlfriend?* Turning the wallet she finally found what she sought - a driver's license issued to one Duncan MacLeod.  
  
As Sara compared the photo on the license with the face of the man, something nagged at her. She frowned. *What's wrong with this picture?* Then it came to her like the sun breaking through clouds - credit cards - that was it! The man had no credit cards. She checked again - not a one. In this day and age - a man with no credit cards. *Weird.* She sucked on her bottom lip, as she slipped the wallet into pocket of her vest. They could have been stolen - but why take the cards and leave the cash? It didn't make sense.  
  
"So how do you rent a car with no credit cards, Duncan MacLeod," she asked, even though she knew he would never answer. Thinking of him as a person - a living breathing person - instead of a corpse, somehow made the task ahead of her less daunting.  
  
*Now what?* She slumped back to sit on her bent legs, as she analyzed the situation. He had to be at least 6 feet tall - probably weighed close to 200 pounds. Though she worked hard to keep herself in shape, handling a body that big would stretch her strength to the limit.  
  
She glanced up at the top of the cliff again. The owners of the other voices didn't appear to be searching for him - that was another fact begging for consideration, but she didn't want to ponder those implications. If he was a crime victim, she shouldn't disturb the scene, but this wasn't the city. Getting help, even calling the police would require a hike back to her cabin, and Sheriff Tanner rarely handled anything more complex than running a speed trap. By the time he rounded up his men and drove up here, the scavengers would have a feast. Her mind recoiled at the thought.  
  
No, she couldn't leave him here. He probably had family or someone who cared about him - maybe the blonde woman in the photo. She wouldn't want one of her loved ones left to that kind of fate. She had to assume that his people wouldn't either.  
  
She stood and looked down. It would take some doing, but since her kit always included extra climbing gear, she thought she could manage. She dug through the half dozen or so pockets in her vest, then dropped a handful of pitons and carbineers on the ground next to the blue nylon rope, and planned her descent.  
  
****   
  
Sara stopped paddling and left the rubber raft drift for a moment. She brushed a straying strand of blonde hair away from her eyes and exhaled slowly. Sighting a familiar rock formation on the right filled her with relief and a sense of satisfaction. *Home at last!* Dipping the paddle into the water again, she guided the raft to the edge of the stream.  
  
Getting Duncan MacLeod off the ledge and into the inflatable raft - another item she always tucked in her backpack - had proved far more difficult than she had initially thought. Wearily, she slipped over the side of the raft and into the icy stream. It whispered as it swirled around her ankles, and it invited her to sink down into the cold water. It would feel great to just let the swift current ease her aching muscles for the next hour, but she still had much work ahead of her.  
  
Rubber met sand with a rasp as she pulled the raft ashore, then she knelt down to splash cold water over her face. The water stung slightly as it hit the still tender skin of her palms. She turned her hands to examine them. They were red and raw from the rope slipping through them, but not as bad as she thought they would be. *If she hadn't been wearing good gloves.* She shuddered at the thought, then she gazed at the man slumped in the front of the raft.  
  
"Good thing, you're dead, MacLeod," she said. "You would never have survived my rescue attempt."  
  
She'd gotten him about half way down from the ledge when the muscles in her hands and arms rebelled against the effort. She just couldn't hold his weight any longer. The rope slipped through her hands, and he had fallen the last ten or twelve feet. She had rushed to his side, apologies bursting from her lips, then she stopped short, remembering that this was only a body. The man Duncan MacLeod had been was long gone, yet she still felt a twinge of remorse. The dead deserved respect. "Sorry about that, MacLeod," she had said. "But you got to admit it's better than waiting for the vultures."  
  
She stood, pulled the raft further up onto the sand, then slipped her hands under his arms and wrestled him out of the boat. Sitting back to rest from her labors she looked down at his face. *Oh great, now my mind is playing tricks - what happened to the gash on his forehead?* Brushing his hair aside, she checked again, but except for a little dried blood, there was no trace of a cut. Something else struck her as odd, but she couldn't quite pin it down.  
  
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes bidding it to reveal itself. Then she opened her eyes wide as it hit her. *Rigor mortis!* The body had been limp as she pulled it from the raft, when it should have been stiff as a ... stiff. She grinned wryly at the pun her brain tossed out. "This isn't a joke," she scolded. But it was pretty weird.  
  
She certainly didn't profess to be an expert, but Jake Anderson, the county medical examiner, loved sharing his knowledge with a best selling mystery writer in return for an acknowledgment at the front of her book. The lesson on rigor mortis had been among the first few, and she knew it set in soon after death.  
  
Then she remembered the feel of his skin on her fingers as she brushed his hair back. Warm - it had been warm. It should have been cool. A rush of anxiety jolted her, sending tingling chills skittering along her nerves. She rubbed her hand over her f orehead. *What have I done? What if he's still alive?*  
  
Remembering the pool of blood, remembering the angle of his body on the ledge, she shook her head. No, he had to be dead. He wasn't breathing and he didn't have a pulse. Definitely dead. Still she reached for his throat to check again. The warm flesh of his throat raised gooseflesh on her arms, but her fingers found no pulse. To be sure, she leaned over and pressed her ear to the blue chambray covering his chest. The heat of his body seeped through the fabric and touched her ear, yet his heart lay still.  
  
She shuddered, stood, brushed the sand off her knees, then returned to the raft to retrieve her belongings. As she bent over to pick up her rifle, the strange popping sounds started again. Listening intently, she turned to locate the source. She'd heard them before as she paddled downstream, but she dismissed them, thinking they were just animal noises. Now they sounded like they were coming from the body.  
  
She slung the rope and the backpack over her shoulder, tucked the rifle under her arm and grabbed the black nylon bag she'd found lying at the base of the cliff where she'd found MacLeod. She approached the body, cautiously, then listened again - nothing but the natural forest noises. "Girl, you're letting your imagination run rampant again." She shook her head and chuckled softly, "Jake's not gonna believe this one."  
  
Dropping her burdens next to a large boulder, she then turned to survey her next obstacle. She'd been up and down this cliff more times than she could remember and she usually climbed it as easily as she mounted a staircase, but today it looked formidable. Today, she had a body to haul up with her, and just thinking about it left her exhausted. She sank down to sit in the sand next to the rock, then fished her water bottle out of the backpack. As she took a long swallow, every muscle in her body twitched from overexertion, and her head hurt. Leaning back against the rock, she closed her eyes, then drifted easily into the hazy fringe area between sleep and wakefulness.  
  
A loud gasp, from somewhere close by, woke her with a start. Her heart hammered as she swept a glance over the small strip of sand. Except for the body, she was alone.  
  
"Who's there?" she called. No one answered.  
  
Instinctively, she extended her arm, seeking her rifle, but it had fallen out of reach. Still searching for signs of an intruder, she moved her hand to the hatchet that hung from a loop on her belt, then unsnapped the leather sheath.  
  
Keeping her back to the rock, she scrambled to her feet and listened hard. The rapid thump of her heart beating against her chest nearly drowned out the natural sounds, but that was all she heard. She looked around again - more carefully this time, examining every rock and dead branch for signs of life. Her eyes narrowed as her search brought them to the man lying on his side a few feet away.  
  
*Huh?* Sara frowned. *On his side?* She had left him lying on his back. She was sure of it.  
  
"What the--" A groan chopped off the end of her oath. A groan that came from the body ... the dead body.  
  
"No way, " she said, as she flattened herself against the rock. Quick reflexes lifted the hand holding the hatchet over her head.  
  
Her blood coursed cold as the stream, and her eyes widened until her face hurt as she watched a dead man lift his hands to his head. He groaned again as he rolled to his knees.  
  
"D-don't move another muscle," she cautioned, waving the hatchet for emphasis. Thoughts of garlic, silver crosses and wooden stakes flickered across her mind. She shook her head to banish them. "I think I've been reading too many Anne Rice novels ... besides it's daylight," she muttered to reassure herself. She blinked, but he was still there on his knees when she opened her eyes.  
  
Despite her admonition, he leaned back on his heels, resting his hands on his thighs. Thick dark brows gave his soft brown eyes a hawkish expression as he glanced briefly at the hatchet, then back to her face. One corner of his mouth curved into a chagrined smile. "Hello," he said quietly.  
  
"You ... you ... you're dead!" As hard as she tried, Sara couldn't keep the tremor out of her voice.  
  
The man's grin widened. "Do I look dead?"  
  
She had to admit he didn't, but not to him. "Two minutes ago, you did! Why, I've seen corpses in the morgue for a week that looked more alive than you did." An exaggeration to be sure, but hey - she was talking to a dead man.  
  
He shrugged, wincing as he did. "If I'm dead, then who are you talking to?"  
  
Sara narrowed her eyes as she studied him. *Who indeed?* "'A bit of underdone potato,'" she quoted Dickens. "The Ghost of Christmas Past, the Second Coming, Count Dracula ... I don't know." She paced in front of the rock as she thought, lowering the hatchet as she did.  
  
A flicker of movement on the edge of her vision stopped her. She whirled around to face him, then brandished the hatchet as a warning. He heeded it. *Hmmm,* she thought, raising one eyebrow as she considered this. *Afraid of a little hatchet, are we? Now that's interesting.* "But you were dead."  
  
"Maybe," he replied. Shifting his weight slowly, he pulled one leg out from under him, then eased back to sit in the sand. "But I'm not now."  
  
Sara gaped at him, amazed at the complete lack of logic in that statement, but it was true. "Obviously," she said, injecting as much sarcasm as she could muster.  
  
Like two cats meeting on neutral turf, they engaged in a staring contest. He lost, Sara decided, as he broke his stare to glance at the hatchet again.  
  
"Why don't you put that down?" He indicated the hatchet with a nod of his head. "I won't hurt you."  
  
"Uh-huh ... and Santa Claus makes annual visits. I think I'll hang on to it."  
  
The man's shoulders lifted as he sighed, bringing on another wince. "You know," he spoke slowly as if speaking to a child or a metal patient. "If you want to defend yourself, don't you think the gun would be more effective."  
  
Without taking her eyes off him, Sara hunched down and picked up the gun. She tucked it under her arm. "I'd forgotten it. Thanks for reminding me." She raised one eyebrow slightly, as she thought about it. *Kind of an odd thing for a man in your position to do.*  
  
"You know, MacLeod ..." She watched his eyes widen as she called him by name. A rush of satisfaction warmed her - she was one up on him. "You are one very weird dude." She paused waiting for a response. He gave her none.  
  
"You drop down from out of nowhere. You were dead when I found you - and you won't convince me otherwise. Now you're alive ... and tell me what kind of game do you hunt with a sword?"  
  
His sharp inhalation cut her litany short. "A sword ... you found my sword?"  
  
Apparently the sword was important. A man with no credit cards who carries a sword into the woods. *If I wrote this character into a novel, my editor would die laughing right after she threw me out of her office.* Sara glanced down and spotted it lying next to the black nylon bag, then she dropped the hatchet as she bent to pick it up. Holding it in one hand while she cradled the rifle in the other, she swung it back and forth in front of her. It affected MacLeod like a snake charmer's flute affects a cobra. He stared as if mesmerized, and his head shifted slightly in rhythm with her motion.  
  
He blinked, then shook his head, breaking the spell. He lifted his hand and with one finger on the tip, he pushed it slowly to the side. "Be careful with that ... it's very sharp."  
  
"I would expect it to be." She lifted it to study the blade. "It's a katana, isn't it?" She glanced at him for confirmation. He lifted one eyebrow, then he nodded. "And very old too, I would guess."  
  
"You know about swords?" he asked, watching her with an expression she couldn't interpret.  
  
"I'm a writer, " she answered. "I know about a lot of things." She moved the sword to point it at him again. He failed in his attempt to mask a flinch. Emboldened by his reaction, she took a step closer and held the sword under his chin. He sat frozen, only a muscle twitching near his jaw hinted at any emotion.  
  
"Okay, MacLeod - time to start talking. Who are you? *What* are you? And at this point I'm more interested in the what, than the who." She moved the sword back a notch so he could talk without impaling himself.  
  
He closed his eyes as he exhaled deeply. "I am Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod," he began.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. I know all that," Sara said, letting her impatience show. "I found your wallet - I know your name. What I want to know is why you were dead, and now you're not. And don't try to tell me you weren't dead ... I've seen dead, and you were dead."  
  
He studied her for a few minutes, then he sighed. "It's a long story."  
  
Sara stepped back to lean against the rock. "I'm in no hurry." Since he seemed undaunted by it, she put the rifle down, then held the sword in both hands. "Start talking."  
  
"Look," he said, shifting as though he intended to stand. Sara wiggled the sword at him and he sank back into the sand. "There's no time for explanations now. I've got to catch the men I was tracking - the ones who forced me off that cliff. They beat and stabbed a friend of mine, left him for dead, then kidnapped his wife and daughter. I think they were headed this way."  
  
Sara frowned as she considered his story. *What if he was telling the truth?* She curled the edge of her mouth between her teeth, and bit into her lower lip. The pain was real. This was real. She wasn't dreaming. "If they're so dangerous, why are you chasing them yourself? Why didn't you call the police?"  
  
"I did, but that idiot sheriff couldn't track a carrot if it was nailed to his nose. They were still trying to organize a search party when I set out on my own."  
  
Sara pictured the Keystone Kops and smiled at the image. "Ah, so you've met our illustrious sheriff. Jed Tanner is the mayor's nephew," she explained.  
  
"That figures," he said with a snort of disgust. "Look, I've lost a lot of time. Why don't you just give me back my sword. I'll go on my way and you can forget you ever saw me." He made a move to get up.  
  
"Ah-ah-ah - not so fast!" She waggled the sword again. He sat back, but his clenched fists indicated growing impatience. If he rushed her, she knew he could easily overpower her, so what was he waiting for? And what was the deal with the sword? She still wanted answers - he owed her more of an explanation than he had given. Yet if he was telling the truth, innocent people might get hurt. Her head swam with mounting confusion.  
  
"Okay, so you're a man with a mission. Give me the Reader's Digest version of why you're alive, when you should be dead, and I'll let you go. I'll even help, if you want."  
  
Moving cautiously, he kept his eyes on the sword, then he passed a hand over his face. "You wouldn't believe it, if I told you."  
  
"Like I said, I'm a writer, MacLeod, the boundaries of my disbelief are very flexible. Try me."  
  
MacLeod studied her with those large brown eyes. His expression changed as he clearly debated with himself. He closed them for a moment, took a deep breath then let it out slowly. "I'm Immortal," he said.  
  
"Immortal - as never die?"  
  
"Something like that."  
  
"But you were dead when I found you."  
  
"Yes, but when Immortals die, it's just a temporary condition."  
  
"Immortals - plural. There are more than just you?"  
  
"Yes, many more."  
  
Sara didn't know why, but she believed him. Believed that he thought he was immortal, anyway. She considered herself a fairly good judge of character, and he seemed sincere. The whole situation was so very bizarre, she didn't know what else to think.  
  
"Okay MacLeod. Let's just say I accept your explanation ... for now. Come on," she said.  
  
As she bent to pick up the pile of gear, she watched him get up. He moved slowly and seemed unsteady. He held his hands out for balance, then lifted one up to massage the back of his neck. "Are you all right?" she asked, allowing compassion to seep into her voice.  
  
He smiled. Sara's knees weakened. "I'll live," he said.  
  
"Apparently so," she replied, smiling back. Who ever he was, whatever he was, her body responded the same way it always did when confronted with a man as gorgeous as Duncan MacLeod. He'd looked good dead. Alive, he was spectacular.  
  
"The only way out of here is up," she said pointing the sword at the top of the cliff. "Can you manage the climb?"  
  
"No problem," he said, but he had turned to face the cliff, so she couldn't see his expression.  
  
At base of the cliff, she dropped the gear again. Feeling the weight of his wallet in her vest pocket, she fished it out. "This belongs to you," she said, handing it over with the black nylon bag.  
  
"So does that." He pointed to the sword she still clutched in her right hand.  
  
She glanced from the sword to his face, then up at the cliff. One of them had to go first. If he did, she would be very vulnerable dangling from a rope halfway up, but she didn't want him trailing her with that sword in his hands either. There were limits to the amount of trust she would put in a stranger - especially one who could rise from the dead. "I think I'll hold onto it a bit longer," she said, watching his eyes. They revealed nothing as he stared a moment, then shrugged his resignation.  
  
Pulling a bungee cord out of her backpack, she looped it around the hilt, then attached it so it wouldn't get in her way. "You can have it back when we get to the top," she said, slipping her arms through the straps of the backpack. She grabbed the rope, then turned to begin her ascent.  
  
"Ah ... you have me at a slight disadvantage." he said.  
  
She paused with one foot on the rock face, then turned her head. *And that's just the way I want it too.* She smiled.  
  
"You have my sword," he continued, "And you know my name, but I don't know yours."  
  
She set her foot back on the ground, then extended her hand. "Sara ... Sara Jane MacKensie."  
  
He lifted one eyebrow, as he took and held her hand for a moment. "MacKensie is a Highlander's name. Are you a Highlander, Sara Jane MacKensie?"  
  
She'd never considered this before. She had detected the trace of an accent in his deep voice, but she couldn't place it. Now she did. She shrugged. "I guess my Dad's family might have been, if you traced them back far enough," she replied. "But I don't know about me. I'm just a stray cat - the MacKensie's adopted me when I was an infant." With that she turned and began her climb. 


	2. Promises to Keep Chapter 2

Duncan stood with his hands on his hips and smiled as he admired the way Sara's khaki shorts moved over the muscles of her thighs and the curves of bottom as she climbed. Though he'd only spent about fifteen conscious minutes with her, she'd enthralled him like no woman had since Tessa.  
  
Regret and a twinge of guilt lapped over him in soft waves, as it did every time he thought about letting another woman into his life. But he'd felt the same way after Kern and the blue coats killed Little Deer. Then he had jumped into a Paris tour boat and into Tessa's life. One look at her beguiling smile, and he had forgotten all about his vow never to love again. As he watched Sara's boots disappear over the edge of the cliff, the sense of deja vu wrapped around him like a python. He took a deep breath to break its grasp, but it held fast.  
  
"Another time, another place, MacLeod," he muttered as he grabbed the rope. His still-healing bones ached, and his muscles howled for mercy as he climbed. Getting killed twice in one day was hell, and who knew if that would be the last of it before the day was done.  
  
When he reached the top, Sara stretched out her hand to help him up. Though smaller than his and slender, the strength in her grip surprised him. He dragged himself away from the edge and lay there for a moment to catch his breath. The warm soft pressure of a hand on his back made him turn his head.  
  
"Are you okay, MacLeod," Sara asked, her voice gentle as a spring rain.  
  
"I'm fine," he answered, rolling onto his back to look up at her.  
  
"Good," she said, with a nod of her head. Her golden ponytail swayed enticingly. Duncan closed his eyes as something deep in his heart twisted in response. Standing, she brushed dirt and gravel from her knees. "I thought maybe you were dead, again."  
  
She extended her hand to help him up, and he accepted, not because he needed help, but because he couldn't resist her touch.  
  
"No," he said, standing before her. "Twice in one day is quite enough."  
  
"Twice?"  
  
"Yeah - you dropped me, remember?" He glared at her for effect. She didn't flinch. "My head was just starting to heal when a one woman rescue squad bounced it off a rock."  
  
She lowered her head for a moment, then looked up. Green eyes, the rich color of jade, sparkled with amusement as she studied him. A crooked smile dimpled her cheek, and exposed a hint of regret, but not a trace of remorse. "Sorry about that, she said . "I was performing an act of mercy ... and I thought you were dead - remember? Last time I heard corpses don't feel any pain."  
  
Her eyes clouded over as she reached up to touch the dried blood on his forehead. "Did it hurt much?"  
  
It had hurt like hell. "No," he lied, "After 400 years you get used to it."  
  
Sara's eyes widened as she gaped at him. "What do you mean - 400 hundred years? 400 years of what?"  
  
Duncan smiled. He shouldn't have said that, but he still wasn't thinking clearly. No time to explain now. He glanced up at the cloudless sky for a moment than met her wide-eyed stare again. He placed his hand lightly on her shoulder. "Someday, I'll take you to dinner and thank you properly for what you tried to do. I'll explain it all, then, but right now, I've got to go."  
  
"Okay," Sara said with a shrug, then she bent to retrieve the rope. "I can't wait to hear this one, but I guess I'll have to. My cabin's about three miles from here." She tilted her head to indicate a path at the edge of the small clearing. "I've got a Jeep so I can take you back to where I found you. You can try to pick up the trail from there."  
  
Duncan shifted his bag so it hung out of the way. "I appreciate the offer, but I can find my own way back. Besides these men are dangerous criminals, you could get hurt."  
  
Sara rolled her eyes, then she pinned him with an emerald scowl. "Don't pull that Mr. Macho stuff with me, MacLeod. I hate when guys do that. These thugs already threw you off a cliff - face it you need help, and I'm the only help available. Besides this is my land - I know it better than anyone."  
  
Before Duncan could respond, she moved to block his way to the path. A good four inches shorter than he was, she stood with her hands on her hips, her feet placed wide. The straight line of her mouth, the icy determination blazing in her eyes and the squared shoulders left no doubt that getting by her would be a major hassle - more hassle than he needed right now. Even if he muscled his way past her, she would probably follow him. Better to have her with him, than on her own - one less thing to worry about.  
  
"All right," he said with a sigh. "But if I tell you to do something, do it - don't argue. Your life could depend on it."  
  
Sara relaxed her stance a bit, but she frowned. "I don't know what kind of women you're used to dealing with, MacLeod, but just so you know - I'm no helpless babe in the woods. I'm smart, strong, and quite capable of taking care of myself."  
  
"So I've noticed," he said flashing her a smile of appeasement. "Now, can we please, get going."  
  
"Right," Sara said. She saluted, then she spun on her heel and strode down the path. Duncan's katana swung from her backpack in rhythm.  
  
"Aren't you forgetting something." he asked, catching up with her in two long strides.  
  
She slowed. "What?"  
  
"My sword," he said. "You promised to return it."  
  
She watched him with narrowed eyes for a moment "Yeah, okay ... I guess I did," she said, shrugging off the backpack. She dropped it on the ground and began to untie the sword.  
  
He took one step back as she straightened, the katana grasped in her right hand. She held it at her side for a moment, lifted it slightly, then she twirled it once. Bringing it to rest on her open palms, she extended her hands and offered it to him.  
  
A disquieting prickle lifted the hairs at his neck. "Where did you learn to do that?" he asked, shaken, more than he cared to admit. He took the sword carefully, then lowered it to his side inclining his head in a slight bow.  
  
Sara shrugged, then settled her backpack onto her shoulders. "Why?"  
  
"You handled it like you knew what you were doing."  
  
Sara chuckled. "I do know a little about swords - enough to fake it - probably enough to be dangerous. Actually, I've got one very similar to yours. I spent some time in Japan researching a novel I never finished, and a friend gave it to me. He showed me some of the basics," she said with a grin, then she stepped back allowing him room to pass. "Guess he didn't want me loping off any essential body parts. After you ..."  
  
"Since it's your territory," he said. "I'll follow your lead ... for now anyway."  
  
Sara tossed him a grin lit with satisfaction, turned and jogged smoothly up the path. As Duncan followed, he wondered how much she knew. Did she know of her future? Could she know what she would one day become? And what of her Japanese friend? Was he an Immortal who knew as well? Had he told her? Or had he just wanted her to be prepared? Duncan suspected she didn't know, but he couldn't be certain.  
  
****   
  
Twenty minutes later, Sara slowed her pace. Duncan moved up to her side. "There's my cabin," she said pointing to the left. When Sara had said *cabin,* he had pictured a tiny one or two room dwelling, but the structure he glimpsed through the trees was a sizable house.  
  
"That's some cabin, he said, whistling in appreciation. "Writing must pay well."  
  
"Depends on the writer," she said with a smirk. "I'm good. I do okay, but not that okay. The cabin was my Dad's - he built it himself. We spent a lot of time here when I was growing up."  
  
She gazed off in the direction of the lake he could see shimmering in the distance beyond the house. "I inherited the cabin and all the land four years ago, when he and my Mother were killed in a plane crash."  
  
"I'm sorry," he said.  
  
Sara took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then she shrugged. "He lived his life the way he wanted," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "He lived it to the hilt, and he died doing something he loved - flying that damned plane."  
  
Duncan wondered if she was talking to him or to herself until she turned to face him again. "What more can a person ask out of life?" He nodded agreement, and thought about making a comment, but she had already started walking toward the cabin. He followed.  
  
She had taken only three or four steps when she stopped suddenly. He nearly tripped trying to avoid running into her. She held her hand out in a gesture of caution. "What--" he started to ask.  
  
"Shhh ... Something's not right." She motioned him to her side, then eased a small branch out of her sight line. "See that window. It's in my bedroom." She pointed to the front of the house, then turned to him, her eyes wide with alarm. "I never close those blinds."  
  
Duncan took a wary step forward. He saw a dark green Jeep Wrangler parked on a strip of blacktop and a large log house surrounded by wildflowers and evergreen shrubs. The blinds on the window were, indeed, closed. He stepped back and watched Sara dig through her backpack. "Are you sure you didn't just close them without thinking - maybe when you were dressing or because the sun was shining in?" He kept his voice low.  
  
She pulled her hand out of the bag, producing a pair of binoculars. Her smile held a hint of indulgence for a foolish question. "I live alone in the middle of the woods, MacLeod. I could dance stark naked on the deck and no one would notice ... and I worship the sun. Trust me - I didn't close those blinds."  
  
Duncan fought off the images her explanation conjured up by examining the house. He saw nothing amiss. "Then why have them at all?"  
  
Sara laughed. The sound whispered soft as a breeze through the pines. "My mother did most of the decorating. My Dad built the cabin for her. She said if he insisted on dragging her into the woods, she insisted on having all the luxuries of home. She used to sit on the deck with a glass of wine and a book while we trekked off to commune with nature."  
  
Sara lifted the binoculars to her eyes. "She had good taste, so I just left everything the way she had it." She watched the house for a long moment, then handed the binoculars to him . "I don't see anything else wrong, but I don't know how those blind s got closed ... and I don't like it."  
  
Duncan took the binoculars and swept them slowly across the front of the house, then he detected a flicker of movement at the far corner of the porch. A man, wearing camouflage and carrying a gun, stepped out from the deep shadows cast by the overhang. A surge of adrenaline left his nerves tingling, as he turned and handed the binoculars to Sara. "Friend of yours?" he asked.  
  
Sara peered through the binoculars again. She shook her head slowly as she adjusted the focus. "Never saw him before. Do you think it's one of those men you were chasing?"  
  
"Could be," he said, watching over her shoulder. "I only got a look at the two who forced me off the cliff. Maybe, the sheriff sent one of his men out to make sure you were okay," he said, hoping that was the case.  
  
"It's a very small town, and I know everyone. I don't know him." She lowered the binoculars, narrowed her eyes and shot him a lethal stare. "I think it's time you told me what we're up against, MacLeod."  
  
He stepped off the trail and into the brush to stay out of sight, then leaned against a tree with his hands in his pockets. Scuffing his toe in the dirt, he studied his feet. He hadn't wanted to involve her, but since it appeared the men had taken over her house, she was involved whether he liked it or not. When he glanced up, she stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. Impatience shimmered around her like heat waves rising off asphalt in the summer sun.  
  
Maybe he could persuade her to wait here while he handled the situation. As he sifted through valid arguments, determination jelled in her eyes. *Fat chance.*  
  
"Where do you want me to begin?" he asked.  
  
"How about the beginning?  
  
He shook his head. "That's a long way back."  
  
"Well, how did you get involved? Were you there when they attacked your friend?"  
  
"No," he said, stepping away from the tree. He gazed off at the lake. Bright sun dappled dark water with gold and silver spangles. "I wish I had been. I should have been." He crouched down to pick up a twig. The memory of Danny Chou, lying in a circle of blood-soaked earth, devoured the tranquil image of the lake. He took a deep breath to chase it, but the disturbing vision clarified instead. The twig snapped into two jagged pieces. He let it slip from his fingers. "My car broke down on the way to meet him, so I got there late ... too late."  
  
Sara's warm touch on his shoulder sent the memory back where it came from - back to the deep recesses of his mind. "Don't blame yourself, MacLeod. What could you have done - one man against a gang?"  
  
He stood up, and gazed over her head. "I could have stopped them from taking Mei Lin and Kim. Or made sure a few of them paid for what they did to Danny."  
  
Sara shook her head, and snorted her amazement at his boast. "You really have an overgrown ego, MacLeod - who do you think you are anyway? Do you Immortals have super human powers, as well?"  
  
"No." He smiled as he looked at her, standing in front of him with her hands at her hips again. "Just a lot of time to take the normal ones to the next level. Don't judge until you've seen me in action."  
  
Rolling her eyes skyward, Sara began to pace a short path. "Oh great." she exclaimed, flapping her arms as she walked. "I've got a gang of marauders camped out in my house, and I'm stuck with a dead guy who thinks he's come back as Rambo."  
  
"Rambo? Who's Rambo?"  
  
She stopped. Turned to face him. "You know ... Sylvester Stallone - The Rambo movies - all 47 of them!"  
  
Duncan shook his head. He had no idea what she was talking about. "'Fraid not," he said. Friends, both mortal and Immortal alike, constantly told him he was out of touch with current events. But who could keep up with 400 years of pop culture? Apparently, this Rambo character was another bit he'd missed.  
  
"Jeeze, MacLeod - where have you been living - a monastery in Tibet?"  
  
"No," he said, chuckling. "I've been around. I just don't keep up with current film characters."  
  
"Do you know who these guys are or where they came from?"  
  
"According to your sheriff, they're survivalists with white supremacist leanings. They caused some trouble when they came through town earlier in the evening. He said they attacked the owner of the general store--"  
  
"Oh no - not Jacob," Sara interrupted. "He's such a dear little man. He wouldn't harm a soul. Do you know if he was hurt?"  
  
"No, I don't think so - not seriously anyway. Tanner said they had started to rough him up when their leader came along, said they had more important things to do, then he hustled them out of town. The store owner told Tanner that one of them had a Swastika tattoo, and someone else said they had a Nazi flag in the back window of their van."  
  
"White supremacists? Neo-Nazi's? What's this world coming to when you can't even escape this kind of garbage in the wilderness?"  
  
"You can't hide from evil," he said, remembering the times he had tried. "It always finds you. Danny Chou and his family learned that the hard way."  
  
"Was he ... is he--"  
  
"Dead," Duncan filled in the blank she left. "I don't know. He wasn't when I left him in town with the doctor. Danny lost a lot of blood, but the doctor still thought he would pull through. He put him on oxygen and started an IV before he called for the med-evac helicopter. I had to find Mei Lin and Kim - I couldn't wait with him."  
  
Other images of Danny sparring with him at the dojo filtered through his mind, and ignited a smile. Despite the fact that Danny was five inches shorter, besting him always took considerable effort. "He's tougher than he looks ... and stubborn as hell."  
  
Sara rested her hand on his arm. "Don't worry - he's in good hands. Joe Reynolds is a excellent doctor, and a very special man. He had offers from some of the best clinics and medical groups in the country, but he prefers to be needed, instead of wealthy."  
  
Duncan nodded as he refrained from asking Sara just how special Joe Reynolds was, and what he meant to her. He wished she wasn't so damned attractive. Wished she didn't remind him of Tessa - even if the resemblance ended at the blonde hair and the determined cut of her jaw. He couldn't allow himself the distraction right now. He had to figure a way to get into that house and rescue Kim and Mei Lin ... if they were still alive. He pleaded with whichever gods were listening to let them be alive.  
  
"So what do we do now?" Sara asked.  
  
"We?" he replied moving a little closer to the edge of the wooded area. "I don't know what I'm going to do yet, but you're staying here." He heard Sara inhale deeply. She was preparing for another tirade - he knew it. "Don't argue," he cautioned.  
  
Sara's searing stare told him he'd lost the argument before it had begun. It didn't take much guesswork to know that she wouldn't do what he told her to. She hadn't since they met; he didn't hold much hope that she would start now. He sighed. "Someone save me from stubborn women, " he muttered, looking up to the sky. "Okay, I give up - *we* are going to have to come up with a plan."  
  
Sara smiled a long slow smile, then moved up to stand next to him. "How many guys are there?"  
  
"I wish I knew. Tanner said there were four in the store, one driving the truck and the leader. That makes six, but they could have met up with more in the woods."  
  
As they watched in silence, another man came out on the porch to join the first. Familiar chilling tentacles slithered over Duncan's skin. Before the sound of rushing wind could touch his ears, he jumped back, turned abruptly, then sprinted into thicker cover. His heart raced as he leaned against the far side of a large oak, and he hoped it would be enough to prevent the other Immortal from sensing him. It might already be too late.  
  
"MacLeod!" Sara's voice hissed from behind him. "What the hell is the matter with you?"  
  
He grabbed her arm as she stepped into view, and he pulled her around in front of him. She shook his hand free. "Are you crazy. Why did you run? Do you know that guy, or did you see a ghost?"  
  
Venting his frustration, Duncan tipped his head back and banged it against the tree trunk. No time for lengthy explanations. He lowered his head and stared deep into her eyes. He needed her to believe him. "He's an Immortal."  
  
"Like you? How do you know?"  
  
"I sensed him. And if I could sense him, he may have sensed me. You were watching him. Did he look around at all, like maybe he heard something or felt something?"  
  
"Sensed ... I don't understand--"  
  
"You don't have to understand," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Did he look around?"  
  
"I don't know. You startled me when you ran. I didn't stop to look, I just ran after you."  
  
Duncan scowled at her again, willing her to understand. Willing her to trust him - and willing her to obey. "Can you see the house from here?"  
  
Sara leaned to look around the tree. "No, not really."  
  
"Is anyone coming?"  
  
Sara rolled her eyes, and stared at him like he was an idiot. "MacLeod, if somebody was coming, I would have told you. I'm not stupid."  
  
"I didn't think you were," he said quickly, to forestall another argument. He reached out and placed one hand on her shoulder. He tightened his grip. "This is very important. I can't go back there or he will know we're here. You'll have to go alone." He hadn't sensed her faint buzz until she was standing less than two feet from him. He hoped the other Immortal couldn't either. He had to chance it.  
  
"Watch him. See if he is behaving normally - as though nothing strange happened. If he is, come right back. If he or any of the other men look like they are searching for something, run like your life depended on it. It will."  
  
"Okay" Sara nodded, her eyes solemn. She shifted her backpack, then clutching her rifle, she stepped aside to move around the tree. "Be right back, she said with a wink.  
  
As she moved, Duncan noticed the hatchet swinging from her belt. He thought of something else. It was too soon, but she had to know. "Sara," he said, stopping her.  
  
She cast a questioning glance in his direction.  
  
"If he comes at you and you can't get away, shoot him, then use the hatchet." He took a deep breath and a big chance. "And cut off his head."  
  
Sara's eyes widened. He had pushed the boundaries of her credibility. He hoped they would hold. "Y-you want me to chop off his head?"  
  
"Yes." He waited for the explosion.  
  
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Perfectly reasonable request, Sara," she muttered. "He wants you to cut off the guy's head." Turning on her heel, she strode away in the direction of the cabin. As her ponytail swung out of sight, he heard her mumbling. "I suppose he'll want me to drive a stake through his heart, as well."  
  
Duncan sighed as he leaned back into the tree. "He's an Immortal, Sara, not a vampire," he said, knowing she couldn't hear him, but not if she believed him.  
  
****  
  
Sara had been gone longer than Duncan thought necessary. He stood still enough to feel his pulse throb in his throat. His ears ached with the effort of sifting through the natural forest sounds for the unnatural snap of a twig breaking or leaves crunching underfoot. He held his breath. Held his arms high. His hands gripped the hilt of his katana until the carvings cut into his palms. Like tightly compressed springs, his muscles tensed for instant action. And he waited for the whirring buzz that would alert him to the approach of another Immortal.  
  
The rasping whisper came without warning - and way too close for any safety margin. "Psst, MacLeod ... It's me, Sara."  
  
Centuries of conditioned response triggered a chain reaction. Every muscle in his body answered the call, and only Herculean effort stopped his arm from completing the arc that would have sliced through her neck.  
  
Ducking, Sara jumped back out of range, as the sword whistled through the air. Scrambling backwards, she tripped, then landed hard in the underbrush. "Jeeze, MacLeod.., you almost killed me!"  
  
All the air rushed out of Duncan's lungs. Completely drained of every ounce of energy, he sank back against the tree, his eyes closed, katana loose at his side. Sara scrambled to her feet, devouring air in great gulps. She bent over to rest her hands on her knees. "I didn't think you were serious," she gasped between labored breaths, "a-about all this decapitation stuff ... but I guess I was wrong."  
  
Duncan moved with the swiftness of striking cobra. He grabbed Sara's arm and held it until his fingers sank into unyielding muscle. He pulled her to him with a force that dragged her off her feet. "Don't ever sneak up on me like that again!" The words rang like hammer blows on steel.  
  
Sara stared, her eyes wide pools of emerald terror. Duncan watched anger surge up to replace the fear. She struggled to break his grip.  
  
"Let go of me! You're crazy," She kicked him hard in the shins, then brought her knee up, aiming it at his groin. Instinct more than conscious thought made him step to the side, avoiding the blow. He lost his balance and fell, taking her with him. He landed on his back knocking the breath and most of his anger out of him. But Sara still fought, punching him soundly in the jaw. He finally managed to grasp both of her hands in his. He pulled them down to his side, and tucked them between his arms and his body, then he wrapped his arms around her.  
  
He held her for a moment staring into eyes that blazed with anger forged in fear. Sliding his hand up to the back of her head, he pulled her to him, then kissed her. She struggled against him for a second, then he felt her relax. Her lips softened, as she accepted his kiss and returned it.  
  
After a moment, his brain finally caught up with what his body was doing; he released her.  
  
With her hands pressed against his chest. Sara pushed herself up. She stared down at him with a long analyzing look, then she spoke softly. "You're beyond crazy, MacLeod. You're downright certifiable." She stood, then took a few steps away from him.  
  
He rolled to a sitting position. "Sara, I'm sorry ... I didn't mean--"  
  
She slipped her hands into her pockets, then turned her back to him. "It's okay, you don't have to apologize. Coming up from behind you like that was stupid - really stupid. I just didn't think."  
  
She lowered her head and scuffed the toe of her hiking boot in the dirt. "I'm rapidly finding out that there's a big gap between writing about these situations and actually living them," she said, lifting her shoulders as she sighed. "I'd never let one of my heroines do something that dumb, but all I could think of was telling you that it looked like those guys don't know we're here."  
  
He got up, then moved to stand behind her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he let his thumbs caress the soft skin of her neck, then he turned her to face him with a gentle pressure. "You know, you're very good. I didn't hear you coming until you were on top of me."  
  
Sara smiled. "I've had lots of practice stalking animals. My father taught me."  
  
Duncan raised an eyebrow. "You're a hunter?" She hadn't seemed the type.  
  
"No, of course not! I love animals. I only shoot them with a camera. You can't make any noise or you scare them off. Kind of ruins the picture." She grinned.  
  
He took her hand and led her back to the tree, wanting its mass between him and the other Immortal just in case. Sara's fingers trembled in his hand, and he knew she was still fearful. She hid it well - he had to give her that.  
  
"Did you get a good look at them?"  
  
Sara nodded. "The one that seems to be the leader - the one you think is ...ah, like you - is one scary-looking dude."  
  
Duncan frowned. Hard to tell if he knew him from that description. He knew lots of Immortals who could fit 'scary-looking.' "Can you describe him?"  
  
Sara smiled. "I can do better than that." She reached into one of the pockets of her vest and produced a Polaroid picture.  
  
Duncan couldn't believe it. "You took his picture?"  
  
"Yeah ... well, I had the camera. I always carry one. It doesn't have a telephoto lens, so it's not very clear, but I thought if we had to give the police descriptions ... well, you know what they say about pictures."  
  
"Better than a thousand words," he mumbled, holding the photo up to examine it. Even though the images were slightly out of focus, an icy terror slithered down his spine as he recognized the man standing at the porch railing. That face had haunted his worst nightmares for decades. Fear congealed in his stomach, and an overwhelming sense of impending doom threatened to suffocate him. The photo slipped from his fingers, as he slipped back in time to 1940. 


	3. Promises to Keep Chapter 3

Duncan focused on the death's head symbol adorning Wolfgang Kroeger's black cap. Anything to distract him from the blistering agony that vibrated along every nerve in his body. Anything to avoid meeting Kroeger's arctic blue eyes - the cruelest, most bestial eyes he'd ever seen.  
  
For the first time in his nearly 350 years of life, Duncan really wanted to die. He would welcome the blade as it severed his head from his pain-ravaged body. But he would not beg. And he would not betray those whose lives depended on his silence. Cold steel pressed against the burning flesh beneath his clenched jaw. *Do it, damn you, do it.*  
  
"You would like this, wouldn't you, MacLeod?" The blade bit into his skin, but not far enough to do any real damage. "You long for release. You yearn for me to take your head," the deep voice crooned - its soothing tones belying the speaker's intent.  
  
"Cooperate - tell me where your friends are hiding, then you can beg for the mercy of death. This will be all over, and you can rest in peace."  
  
Naked, with arms and legs strapped to a unforgiving metal table, Duncan seized the only weapon left to him. He found a trace of saliva, and with every ounce of strength he could summon, he spat at Kroeger. "Go to hell!"  
  
"Tsk, Tsk," his tormentor said, removing the cap. He took a crisp handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped it along the brim of the cap, then swabbed specks of spittle from his face. "That was a very foolish thing to do, MacLeod. Now, you've made me angry - very angry."  
  
Though he expected it, the force of the blow wrenched Duncan's neck, and the ornate gold ring on Kroeger's right hand tore open a gash on his cheek. Warm blood welled from the cut, ran along his face, then seeped into his ear.  
  
"Friedrich," Kroeger called to his aide, as he removed his jacket. He draped it neatly over the back of a chair, then set his cap on the seat. "It seems our young friend, here, isn't ready to go home yet. Fetch me some toys, so we can play another game, will you?"  
  
Snapping to attention, Friedrich quickly moved out of Duncan's view, but Kroeger crossed the room to a table by the wall. With his back to Duncan, he rolled up his sleeves. When he turned, he held an apple and a knife in his hand. He smiled as he gazed down at Duncan - the smile of a man about to enjoy a good meal or a beautiful woman. He began to peel the apple in one very thin strip.  
  
Duncan couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, but hunger was so far down on the list of torments the Immortal SS officer had inflicted on him, the sensation of it surprised him. As the cold wet peel fell onto his stomach, he watched, hypnotized by the motion, and waited for the agony to begin again.  
  
When it did, it caught him suddenly as it always did, and with a force that would have lifted him off the table if he hadn't been strapped down. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't prepare himself for the white hot blinding pain, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't stop the screams that scraped his throat raw.  
  
To protect his sanity and to prevent himself from revealing the identities and whereabouts of Connor and their associates - very mortal associates - Duncan sought sanctuary deep in his mind. Using the ancient methods he had learned centuries ago in the Orient, he retreated to a place of peace where the flames of torture could not reach him. And he waited for the brief respite of temporary death.  
  
****  
  
The tap of soft knuckles on his forehead startled him, jerking him out of the past.  
  
"Hey, MacLeod, are you in there?" Sara's honeyed voice rubbed away the haunting memories with a soothing balm. She knelt before him, her eyes filled with concern, her fist poised to rap his head, again. He smiled weakly, then reached up, and took her hand in his.  
  
"I'm here," he said, with a sigh, holding her hand to keep himself connected to the present. The words came out ragged and raw, but the memory drifted away. "Sorry ... I was just thinking about something."  
  
Sara didn't pull her hand away as she leaned back to sit on her heels. "I take it, he isn't a friend of yours."  
  
Duncan stared at her as Kroeger's face vied with hers. "No ... not a friend." He exhaled the words slowly along with his breath.  
  
"Want to talk about it?"  
  
"No ... I can't." He shook his head. The memory was too real. He couldn't. "There's no time," he said, picking up the picture. He forced himself to look into the face of his enemy again.  
  
Sara eased her hand away, then tucked her feet into a half-lotus. She juggled a rock from hand to hand as she watched him with an expression he couldn't read.  
  
"They don't know we're here, MacLeod," she said, softly. "Another one of them came outside and they seemed to be just talking, calmly - like there was no threat. So what do we do now?"  
  
"I have to think," he said, trying to do just that. Despite everything, she seemed determined to go on. He had to admire her courage. "Is there someplace we can go while I work up a plan. Someplace close by, but far enough away from the house that he can't sense me."  
  
"How far is far enough?"  
  
He shrugged. "I don't really know. The distance varies. It's like sight or hearing - some Immortals are more sensitive than others."  
  
"Oh great!" Sara tossed her head. Blond silk swished as she looked around. "We can go down to the boathouse."  
  
She pointed toward the lake, and he could see the peak of a small building at the edge. Seemed far enough away for safety. "That should be good," he said, with a nod and a sweep of his hand in that direction.  
  
Sara moved soundlessly into the brush, and he followed. It took just a few minutes to cover the distance, then Sara stopped just short of their destination. "Damn," she swore softly. "I forgot, you can see the door from the house."  
  
Duncan looked at the door mounted at the back of the small wooden structure, then back at the house. One of the men paced a large deck that ran across the entire facade. "Is the door locked," he asked.  
  
"No. There's just a latch keeping it closed."  
  
"Give me the binoculars and I'll watch for him to turn his back. When I say, *go,* keep low and get inside. "I'll follow you. We'll just have to hope no one's watching from inside the house."  
  
Sara nodded, as she crouched down and inched over to the edge of the brush. Duncan watched the man on the deck. He reached the railing, then turned and began walking toward the far end of the deck. "Go," Duncan commanded. He heard a mere whisper of sound as Sara moved behind him, then the faint squeal of a hinge. The man on the deck continued his tour without hesitation. Duncan waited until he completed another circuit, then crouched and ran for the door.  
  
He stepped into the darkness, then paused a moment with his back pressed against the door as his eyes adjusted. The boathouse appeared to be empty. A slight scrape of rubber on wood made him look up - up into the barrel of a rifle ... and Sara's smiling face. "Nice to see you again, MacLeod," she said, jumping down from a broad beam that ran the length of the building.  
  
Duncan shook his head in amazement. "You're full of tricks, aren't you."  
  
Sara chuckled as she opened a cabinet in the corner. She took out a lantern, adjusted the wick, then flicked a lighter she had taken out of a vest pocket.  
  
Duncan put his hand over hers. "Don't ..."  
  
"It's okay. It's daylight, they won't see the light from the house."  
  
Duncan's eyes had rapidly adjusted to the dim light seeping in under the double doors at the far end. He didn't need additional light, but he released Sara's hand, and let her light the lantern.  
  
It cast pale shadows over a canoe mounted on the wall beside them. Across the way on the far wall, the supports for a larger boat stood empty. Underneath, extra paddles, a pair of oars and pile of canvas sail lay neatly stacked. In the corner, a rack held fishing tackle. A pair of bows and a quiver of arrows leaned against it. A plan began to take shape.  
  
He walked over to investigate. He picked one bow up and sampled the feel of it in his hand. It had been nearly a century, since he'd even held a bow let alone used one. Like riding a bicycle, he thought. Once you learn you never forget. But his skills would, no doubt, be rusty.  
  
"Why did you kiss me," Sara asked, breaking into his thoughts.  
  
Bow in hand he turned to face her. It had been an impulse, a reflex action, an instrument to calm her down, but the desire to do it had been lurking at the back of his mind since he'd seen her waving that hatchet back by the stream. He took a deep breath. "I don't know," he said, softly. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."  
  
He looked into her eyes, wishing they were in another place - under different circumstances, but he'd learned over the centuries, that wishing accomplished nothing. Crossing the space between them in two long strides, he stood before her. He stroked a lock of silken hair away from her face, and tucked it behind her ear. He let his finger trail down her face, then dropped his hand to his side.  
  
"Oh," she said softly, taking a step back.  
  
She paused a moment, gazing into his eyes, then she broke the contact. She took another step back, then lifted herself up to sit on the cabinet. Her action shook the lamp and it cast flickering shadows over her face. When the flame settled, it bathed her face with a warm glow, and she watched him with an unreadable expression, then she smiled, lifting the corners of her mouth slowly. The smile spoke of satisfaction and contentment, mystery and knowledge. It implied that she'd just read his mind.  
  
Her boot heel tapped out a beat on the wooden door as she swung her foot. Her smile slipped into a grin. "So what do we do now, Chief?"  
  
*Back to reality.* Duncan shook his head to chase the remnants of the spell. "Do you know how to use this?" he asked, holding the bow before him.  
  
"I'm an expert, and I've got a collection of medals to prove it."  
  
He lifted an eyebrow at her boast, then returned her grin. "Ever hit a moving target?"  
  
"A moving target?" Why would I need--" Her foot stopped its drum solo and her eyes widened, as the implication penetrated. "Oh ... um ... well, I've never ... uh," she stammered, glancing down at her feet. "I guess, I could."  
  
"Don't guess. There are six of them and only two of us. We need to take a few of them out without alerting the others."  
  
Sara's eyes widened perceptively. Realization of the reality facing them flooded their depths. She inhaled sharply, but said nothing.  
  
"I can't get too close because the other Immortal will know I'm here, so we have to do it from a distance." He waggled the bow.  
  
Sara nodded, her eyes solemn.  
  
"I've done this before, but it's been a long time," he said, pulling back the string and sighting down an imaginary arrow. He released the string. It snapped back into place with a twang, then he set the bow down, wrapping his hands around the top of the shaft. "If you don't want to come along, I can do it alone. You'll probably be safe if you wait for me here."  
  
Sara shook her head, then she slipped down from her perch. "No way." Her feet punctuated the words with a soft thump. "I'm coming with you."  
  
A cover of determination blacked out any fear or doubt in her eyes. Duncan had no idea what she was thinking, but he had seen that determined look before, and he remembered the woman who had hauled a man's dead body off a cliff. Sara MacKensie would do what she had to do. He was sure of it.  
  
****  
  
"You married, MacLeod," Sara asked, as they walked along the shore of the lake.  
  
Duncan's foot slipped off a rock and landed ankle deep in icy water. "No. Why do you ask?"  
  
"Just making conversation. I went through your wallet when I was trying to find out who you were. I saw a picture of a pretty blonde woman. I thought maybe she was your wife."  
  
*Tessa.* Even after two years, deep abiding sadness rested heavily on his heart. He couldn't talk about Tessa. Not now. Not today. "No, she's not my wife. How much further is that clearing?"  
  
Sara stopped. Her ponytail twitched as she turned her head. She stared at him for a moment with narrowed eyes and a masked expression, then she turned and began walking again. "It's just ahead."  
  
Duncan squeezed between a large boulder and a tree, then followed Sara into the clearing. Sandy black dirt, littered here and there with rocks and small plants, skirted the lake and stretched about twenty feet along the shore. It extended back into the woods about the same distance. It suited his purpose nicely.  
  
A tree at the far edge offered a convenient perch for the target Sara had dug out from under the sails. Duncan walked across the clearing, then attempted to wedge the bright yellow, red and blue ringed disk in the "V" where branch met trunk. It tilted, falling out of place. He reached out to adjust it again, but a faint whistle, brought the hair at the base of his neck to attention. Something brushed his arm, and a vibrating twang shook his ears. He tried to move his arm, but an arrow had pinned his sleeve to the tree.  
  
"What the hell!" He continued to swear in Gaelic, as he pulled the arrow from the tree, then spun around in one fluid motion.  
  
Sara stood at the other side of the clearing, bow in hand, wearing a satisfied expression on her face.  
  
Duncan covered the space in three long strides. "Are you crazy?" he shouted waving the arrow wrapped in his clenched fist.  
  
Sara stepped back, lowered the bow in the space between them, wound her fingers around the top, then she smiled. "You asked if I could hit a moving target. The answer is in your hand."  
  
"I didn't mean me. You could have killed me!"  
  
"Possibly," Sara said, watching him with a look that was sharper than the arrow he held in his hand. "But you told me you can't die." She broke off her stare, turned, then sat down on a rock at the edge of the clearing. Holding the bow across her lap, she examined it.  
  
Duncan stood with his hands on his hips. Just when he thought he had her figured out, she did or said something that left him astounded. The woman sitting before him appeared as cold and calculating as any he'd ever met, yet he'd seen her soft and tender, as well. He shook his head, as he fitted the arrow to the string of the other bow.  
  
"Well, this is not the time to test my Immortality," he said turning back to face the target. "Having an arrow pierce my back, and dying as a result, is not my idea of a fun way to pass the time." As he pulled back the string, then released the arrow, he remembered a time when he had died from just such a shot. A time when he was living with Little Deer and the Sioux, but he had no time for such memories now. He shook them off.  
  
His shot missed the bull's eye by about three inches. He swore softly as he positioned another arrow on the bowstring. "Besides, you missed," he said - but he didn't. This time the arrow landed in the center of the black spot. He turned to find Sara watching him.  
  
"No I didn't," she said, rising. "I was aiming for this spot of blood on your sleeve."  
  
Duncan tugged at the blue chambray and examined the hole in his sleeve. It lay exactly in the center of a patch of dried blood about two inches across. She could be lying, but he didn't think so. He didn't really believe she would shoot him deliberately, so he had to believe his sleeve had indeed, been her target. He hoped she would be that good when he needed her to be.  
  
****  
  
Mesmerized, Sara watched the muscles of Duncan MacLeod's back and shoulders ripple under his shirt as he sorted through the contents of her backpack. Muttering something about seeing what else she had in her bag of tricks, he had spilled everything out on the ground a few minutes before. From a distance of about two feet above her head, her mind watched as well, and methodically recorded every detail. *So this is what an out-of-the-body experience feels like.*  
  
How else could she explain this bizarre sense of separation, and the chilling numbness that blocked rational thought? Her world had taken on a surreal quality the moment a dead man sat up by the stream. When the razor edge of his sword missed her head by millimeters, her mind immediately shut down all feeling, then sought refuge in that safe spot where it now floated. All other body functions ran strictly on autopilot. Any sense of conscious movement, conscious decision-making had vanished. Logic and order had evaporated like a morning mist under the heat of the midday sun. Nothing of substance remained - nothing to hold on to, save courage. The tide of events flowed too strongly for resistance; she quit fighting and drifted with the current.  
  
A wet sounding crunch, caught her attention and held it. She blinked to focus her eyes. Less than a foot away, MacLeod rested his arm across one bent knee as he bit into the apple again. A dead man eating an apple. Such a common ordinary act raised to an eerie level by extraordinary circumstances.  
  
"Help yourself to my lunch, MacLeod," she said. Her voice echoed strangely, yet the tone sounded perfectly normal, almost playful. Who was this person? No one she knew, and certainly not Sara MacKensie.  
  
His smile triggered a rush of warmth that spread up from the pit of her abdomen. "I like a woman who plans ahead." He held the apple out to her, offering to share.  
  
She shook her head, then propped her elbows on her knees. Her head drooped to rest in the cradle of her palms. "I was an Explorer Scout. Our troop leader taught us to be prepared at all times for all things."  
  
"He taught you well, but you forgot the kitchen sink," MacLeod replied with a chuckle, setting the apple down on top of the binoculars.  
  
He picked up a Swiss army knife, checked out a few of the attachments, then he dropped it onto the growing assortment of items piled near her feet. He had already selected the Bowie knife that had been her father's favorite, a coil of nylon rope, a roll of electrical tape that had been in the bag for so long she forgot why she had it, and a small high-powered flashlight. He threw the remaining items, including the rest of her lunch back into the bag, then set it alongside her.  
  
He sat back on his heels and studied her for a moment while he finished the rest of the apple. "I want you to understand something," he said, his voice low and steady. "Before this is over, people are going to get hurt. Some may even die. I'll do my best to make sure the bad guys are the only ones doing the dying, but I can't offer any guarantees."  
  
Two Saras listened to the sensual, resonant voice of a dead man. One Sara accepted the inescapable truth of this unimaginable situation, coldly and with full knowledge that she would do what needed to be done. *Kill, or be killed. And you're right smack dab in the middle of it, Sara. You can't go back, and you can't run from the inevitable.*  
  
The other Sara recoiled at this casual speaking of violence and of death. She wondered what had become of the writer Sara who could form such scenes in her imagination, then paint those pictures with words for others to read. She saw no recourse but retreat, and crept deeper into the corners of her dark sanctuary to let the other Sara get on with the harsh business of killing.  
  
As the gap between them widened, both Saras wondered whether even all the kings horses and all the kings men could make her whole again. "We've been over this ground before," the cold steel Sara said. "Why go over it again?"  
  
"Because this is not one of your novels we'll be writing. It's reality, and I thought I should remind you, that for mortals, death is permanent."  
  
Sara rubbed her palms along her thighs. The sun-browned backs of her hands wore a coat of smeared dirt and dried blood. The normally short nails were broken and split. The yoke of cold steel chafed as it sat heavily on her shoulders. She sighed. "You think I don't know that?"  
  
She looked up and gazed deep into his soft brown eyes - except the softness had formed a hard edge. They now glinted with his own brand of steel. An electric thrum traced her nerves as they continued to measure one another. No matter what the future held, circumstances had joined her with this man in a way that she had never been joined with anyone before. What consequences waited in the path ahead, she knew not. She just knew they must face them together.  
  
He leaned closer, and took her hands in his. Strong hands grasping her slender hands. His thumbs moved over her knuckles, caressing them with soothing tenderness. "I need you to be absolutely sure," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "If I take you with me, I need to know that you can do what needs to be done. Once we have begun, you can't change your mind or get squeamish on me at the last minute."  
  
"You want to know if I can ... kill."  
  
He lowered his eyes to glance at their joined hands. "Yes," he answered, meeting her gaze again.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
His eyes twinkled as his mouth twitched into a smile. "At least, you're honest."  
  
"I won't let you down, MacLeod. My Dad taught me that life is full of things you don't think you can do, but when they need to be done, somehow you find the strength to do them."  
  
He studied her again for a long moment, then gazed down at the ground as he pushed the equipment to one side. With a twig, he drew a rough outline of her house in the dirt. "Here's what I thought we could do ... " he said, as he began to lay out his plan of attack. 


	4. Promises to Keep Chapter 4

Sara held her breath, listening, waiting as the boot heels thumped on the wood planking inches above her head. With a faint sigh, she released it as the man moved further along the deck. Then she turned back to the problem in front of her - the large evil-looking spider blocking her path.  
  
"Don't get squeamish on me," MacLeod had said, but he'd meant about killing the guard. It probably never entered his mind that his caution need apply to spiders as well. How could he know that this very capable woman he'd found, playing Sheena, Queen of the Jungle in the wilderness, would dissolve into a mass of quivering gelatin at the sight of even the tiniest house spider?  
  
Spiders terrified her. They always had. She could face off with a bear. She had once bested a cougar in a staring contest. She could even hold her own during a close encounter with a copperhead. But spiders set her feet on a path for the hills every time she saw one.  
  
Gossamer strands of web stretched from the stone wall of the foundation to the post that supported the deck. In the center, the black arachnid waited for dinner to arrive on the fly. It moved a yellow striped leg menacingly. Sara held her ground, but like the venom that paralyzed the spider's victims, fear immobilized her. It rested heavy as a lump of raw dough in her stomach. Its sour taste rose to the back of her throat, while its chilling fingers played along her spine.  
  
She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip. "Come on, Sara. Get over it," she scolded. "You're bigger than he is and he's more afraid of you than you are of him."  
  
Even her father's words of wisdom couldn't slow the rapid beat of her heart, nor could they banish the fear. They never had in all those years when she fled to him for protection from spiders past, she didn't know why she thought they would help today.  
  
The boot heels clumped overhead again, reminding her that spider or no spider, she had an assignment to fulfill. An assignment she'd volunteered for - one she'd insisted she could handle. She took a deep breath, then pointed the rifle at the center of the spider's back and called on Clint Eastwood for courage. "'So punk,'" she whispered. "'Do you feel lucky today?'"  
  
She poked the web to the right of the spider with the tip of the barrel. It inched toward the stone foundation. *Got you on the run, eh?* She swept the barrel through the silken threads connecting the web to the support post, and the spider crept closer to the foundation. Still she hesitated, mustering the courage to edge past it. She pictured MacLeod's face as she explained. *Well, you see there was this spider ...* She remembered the sword whistling past her ear and shuddered. Facing his reaction would be far worse than dealing with this spider.  
  
Taking a deep breath and keeping her eyes focused intently on the intimidating creature, she pressed her back into the support post and edged past. The spider slipped into a crack in the foundation and vanished from sight.  
  
Sara released the breath that threatened to burst her lungs, as quietly as she could, then she bent over to rest her hands on her knees and let her heartbeat slow to a normal pace. The white tank top she wore under her vest felt like it had been coated with wallpaper paste as it stuck to her back and breasts, and her hand trembled as she slung the rifle over one shoulder. She wiped the perspiration from both her palms onto her shorts, then duckwalked through the narrowing space to the end of the deck.  
  
Scanning the trees and underbrush near the edge of the house, she picked her spot. She waited for the sound of the boot heels to fade once more, then sprinted on ballerina feet for the cover of a large oak. Leaning back against the tree, she listened for shouts of warning. None came. She had made it safely, spider and all.  
  
Keeping her bare arm against the rough bark, she turned to peer around the edge of the tree. The guard walked his post as though nothing alarming had occurred. *Good.* Now came the test. Could she do as MacLeod had instructed? Could she kill this man - coldly with no motivating anger? Tough call.  
  
Stepping back into the protection of the tree, she took an arrow and fitted the slot onto the bowstring, then she drew the string back halfway and rolled around the tree to face the house again. The guard neared this end of the deck. He paused a moment, surveying the terrain - a perfect target. Sara pulled the bowstring back fully taut. Her mouth went dry, suddenly as though a desert wind had blown through it. Sweat chilled her skin as it trickled between her shoulder blades. Her hands trembled, and they refused to release the string on command. The guard turned and resumed his tour.  
  
*That answers that question.* You can't do it. The Sara who watched from above gloated. She was the real Sara. But the Sara who had just confronted a spider and won disagreed. *You promised MacLeod.* She inhaled deeply as she slumped back against the tree. *You can do this. He's counting on you to do this. Counting on you to help him rescue his friend's family.*  
  
Drawing on the adrenaline rush leftover from the spider encounter, she turned back to the house once more. Girding herself with a band of pure will power, she pulled back the bowstring, and waited.  
  
The guard neared the railing at this end of the deck as he completed another circuit. He paused, glanced over his shoulder, then released his grip on the gun he carried, allowing it to swing from the strap at his shoulder. Sara watched, holding her courage around her to block the nagging voice of her alter ego. She concentrated on the guard's actions.  
  
He reached into his pocket, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Placing one slender tube between his lips, he lit it. Sara stepped out from the tree. Setting her feet wide for balance, she aimed. *Don't you know those things can kill you.*  
  
With an abrupt sweep of his hands, the guard threw the cigarette and lighter to the ground. He reached for his gun, a moment too late. Sara's arrow found its target in the center of his chest. He toppled over the railing and his body hit the ground with a thump.  
  
Sara crouched down behind a bush that didn't offer much cover. Surely his friends heard that thump. The sound still echoed in her head. They probably heard it all the way back in Seattle. She waited a moment, but no one responded. She had given the guard little time to shout a warning.  
  
Staying as low to the ground as she could, she crept over to the body. She checked cautiously for a pulse, found none, then grabbing his feet, she pulled the body under the deck. She covered it with a pile of leaves and a few broken branches. Not a very good camouflage job, but it would have to do. She took a few steps away, then turned back. "And you stay dead," she whispered remembering the last dead man she'd dealt with. "Please, stay dead."  
  
****  
  
MacLeod had assured her that the leader was the only other immortal around. But how could she be sure? How could she be sure of anything, anymore. A quick glance at her watch, confirmed that she was still on schedule. Now, for the next stage of MacLeod's plan. As she worked her way to the corner of the garage, she cast frequent glances over her shoulder to check on the guard. He hadn't moved.  
  
Leaning back against the log wall, she glanced down at the gun she had taken from him. Uzi? AK-47? Though she had done research on assault weapons, she'd never held one in her hand before. This one looked a lot more lethal than any of the pictures she'd seen. Just hanging loosely in her hand, it radiated raw killing power, and spread gooseflesh up her arm.  
  
A wave of queasy repugnance hit her, suddenly, unexpectedly. She had killed a man. Sara MacKensie who wrote about murder and death every day, but who couldn't kill the spiders that terrorized her had killed a man. Bile pushed at the back of her throat and the muscles constricted in a spasm. She fell to her knees and retched. But she had been too busy to eat, so her stomach was empty. That made the retching far worse.  
  
Breathing heavily, she leaned back on her heels and buried her face in her palms. She had crossed an unseen border. There had been no guards, no check points to warn a wandering stranger. She was alone in an unknown land, doing unspeakable things. How could she go on?  
  
MacLeod's deep voice reverberated in her head. "Once we have begun, you can't change your mind," he had said.  
  
"I won't let you down," she had promised.  
  
She'd given her word. He was counting on her to be where he needed her to be - to do what he needed her to do. She stood slowly, and remembered what MacLeod had told her about Danny Chou and his family.  
  
He'd lived in cities all his life. Beijing. Hong Kong. San Francisco. Seattle. Growing up on the far side of the poverty line, he'd resisted the drugs and the street gangs. He'd worked long hours sweeping floors, waiting tables and washing dishes to put himself through college.  
  
Three years ago he'd taken a chance. He'd scraped together every cent he could, borrowed every dollar the banks would allow, and started a small software company. There his brilliant mind and strong work ethic earned him the success and security he'd been seeking all his life. His business thrived, and it enabled him to provide his wife and daughter with an income beyond his wildest boyhood fantasies.  
  
Six months ago, on a business trip to Bellingham, he'd taken a wrong turn and discovered a world he never believed existed. A world he'd heard about, but never had time to investigate. A world brimming with pristine mountain lakes and noble pines, sweet smelling air and broad vistas. Transfixed by the strong image he brought home to Seattle, he longed to share it with Mei Lin and Kim. He planned the camping trip with the fervor of a convert.  
  
MacLeod had tried to temper Danny's enthusiasm. Tried to explain that you couldn't learn the art of living in the woods from a book like you could learn a new computer language. Tried to explain that it was a slow process, but Danny burned with his new found passion. He refused to listen, but he did accept MacLeod's offer to join them. 200 The unexpected arrival of a headhunting immortal had prevented MacLeod from leaving with his friend. The recalcitrant engine of the T-bird had delayed him further. And the evil Danny Chou thought he'd left far behind him in the city had followed him into paradise.  
  
With a weary sigh, Sara bent to pick up the guard's gun. She slung it and the bow over one shoulder, then gripped her own rifle in her right hand. *I have promises to keep.* Using Robert Frost's lyric lines as a mantra, she flattened herself against the logs and eased around the corner.  
  
Treading softly and praying that no one would look out the glass entrance to the great room, she moved up to the edge of the sliding door just ahead of her. She pressed herself into the wall, and listened to the voice flowing from the guest bedroom.  
  
"Well hey, there little lady," the voice crooned, accompanied by the scrape of heavy shoes shuffling across the wood floor.  
  
Though the muffled voice was unfamiliar, Sara recognized the twangy cadence. This guy was definitely a home grown product. No one responded, but she couldn't chance a look to see who he had spoken to. Could be Mei Lin or Kim. If it was, that meant at least one of them was alive. Sara's relief escaped in a slow exhale.  
  
"Are you behavin' yourself?" the man asked.  
  
No answer. He cackled, briefly, then the scraping clump of his lazy shuffle faded. Sara assumed he'd left the room, but his presence puzzled her.  
  
The three men, she and MacLeod had seen so far, appeared regimented and full of military discipline. The guard on the deck had been a little lax, perhaps - and she was thankful for that - but this guy sounded like an uneducated mountain man. He didn't seem to fit her growing impression of the opposition.  
  
Living up here in the Cascades, she'd come across a few of these enigmatic characters from time to time. Found most of them harmless, but one or two had frightened her more than any wild animal - or spider - she'd ever encountered.  
  
They kept to themselves, living off the land, and if she left them alone, they usually left her alone. But any threat, real or imagined, triggered their animal instincts and they attacked with no thought save protecting their freedom and their privacy. Decidedly anti-social, they trusted no one.  
  
Anti-social. Sara smiled - that was the way her city friends described her. They couldn't understand why anyone would want to live way out here in the woods. Couldn't understand that when the muse struck, it ruled her life with force of a dictator. They constantly questioned why she couldn't go to a show with them, or join them for dinner, or chat idly on the phone. So when the muse moved in, Sara packed her things and moved out. She came up here to the mountains where no explanations were needed.  
  
Anti-social. She had more in common with these mountain men, than she thought. So what was one - possibly more - doing with this gang of Neo-Nazis or whatever they were?  
  
Money? She doubted it. Some appeal to a hidden passion? Could be, she supposed. Obviously they'd found some motivation to enlist his help and his presumed knowledge of the terrain. She didn't know if MacLeod knew how unpredictable these men could be, and she wished there was time to warn him.  
  
*Wishes,* Sara thought as she glanced up at the darkening sky. *They were a waste product of hope, and only fed futility.*  
  
The sun hung low on the other side of the lake - suspended just above the treetops in a symphonic melange of indigo, orange and gold. The lake water mimicked the colors of the sky, yet wore the shimmering imitation without shame. Would MacLeod stop to admire the sunset as he moved in from the other side of the house? Sara smiled as she pictured his handsome face, frozen in rapt concentration. Highly unlikely. *Promises to keep,* rolled through her mind again, and urged her forward. She rested her cheek against the warm glass as she peered in through the grid that gave the door the illusion of separate lites. The sun glare prevented a clear view of the interior, so with a flickering glance at the other door, she lifted her hand to shield her vision.  
  
Most of the room was veiled by shadows, but enough sun streamed through the door to illuminate the end of the bed and a pair of feet, clad in bright pink socks. Ropes coiled around the ankles bound the feet to the spindles of the brass bed.  
  
Sara gripped the curved French-style handle of the door and pushed it. She prayed that it hadn't been latched, and prayed that it wouldn't announce her presence as it rolled open. When it slid to the other side with a only faint murmur, Sara whispered thanks to her father for insisting on quality building materials.  
  
She crouched down, then adjusted all the equipment hanging from various parts of her body to make sure it was securely fastened. She felt naked without her backpack, but MacLeod had insisted she leave it behind. "You won't need all that stuff, and it will only get in your way," he'd argued. Ha! She needed all that stuff that's why she carried it in the first place. The backpack never got in the way, but all these loose items did. 300 She sank to her knees, and paused. None of the weapons, nor anything else clattered to the deck. *All carry on luggage and tray tables safely secured, seatbacks in an upright position. Flight attendants, take your seats, this plane's cleared for take off.* She crept into the house.  
  
The feet she had glimpsed through the door, belonged to a young girl. About fourteen, she guessed. A fall of dark shiny hair spilled over her shoulders, and her almond-shaped eyes enlarged to dark brown ovals as she stared at Sara.  
  
A broad stripe of grey tape over her mouth prevented the girl from making a sound, but Sara held her index finger up to her lips, anyway, then she crawled around to the other side of the bed. If someone came in, at least she would have a place to hide. She stood, then setting her hand on the headboard for balance, she leaned over the girl and cut the ropes that bound her hands.  
  
That task completed, she moved her hand to the girl's shoulder to soothe her. "It's okay, Kim," she whispered, keeping her mouth as close to the girl's ear as she could. "I'm here to help you." The tension in the girl's shoulder ebbed under her fingers.  
  
"Do you know Duncan MacLeod?" she asked hoping the familiar name would alleviate any remaining fear.  
  
The girl nodded, then reached up for the tape holding her mouth shut. Sara grasped Kim's hand gently and shook her head. "That's going to hurt and you can't make a sound. Understand?" Kim nodded again.  
  
Sara outlined her plan, then moved to cut the ropes on Kim's feet. Following Sara's instructions the girl slipped off the bed. The springs creaked when her weight released them. They both sucked in sharp breaths, then froze. They waited a moment, and when no one investigated the sound, Sara nodded to send Kim on her way.  
  
Danny Chou's daughter padded to the door, then looked both ways before stepping through - a city girl trained as a toddler to check for danger before venturing out into the street. Sara smiled at her instinctive behavior, and returned the wave Kim fluttered before she vanished from sight. If only the girl was back home safely on those familiar streets. Sara sighed. If MacLeod had *taken out* the guard at the front of the house, Kim should have a clear path to the truck. Counting on that, and the cover of darkness, Sara had told her to get into the Jeep, and hide under the blanket in the back. She hoped it would be safe enough, but who knew.  
  
Not trusting her hiking boots to be silent on the hardwood floor, she sank to her knees, again, then crept to the door. Once outside, she approached the door to the great room with utmost caution. MacLeod had told her to wait there. He said she would know when he had entered the house because the leader would react to the sense of another immortal. She hoped he knew what he was doing. 


	5. Promises to Keep Chapter 5

The thirty minutes Duncan had given Sara to take out the guard on the deck ticked off slowly. He had caught the guard on the front porch with a clean shot twenty minutes ago, now all he could do was wait.  
  
He felt guilty about giving her the more dangerous assignment, but he couldn't risk Kroeger sensing him. Waiting proved far more difficult than doing, especially since he had no idea whether she'd succeeded. Using the Bowie knife, he scraped dirt out from under his neatly trimmed fingernails as he leaned against a tree and watched the house from a safe distance.  
  
"Don't worry about me, MacLeod. I'll be fine," Sara had insisted. But he worried about her - felt responsible for her. He couldn't help it. All his friends, Connor, Amanda, Methos - even Joe Dawson - told him repeatedly that he couldn't shoulder every responsibility in the world. Knowing his failures would far out number his successes, he tried, anyway. He didn't know any other way to live. Even if he wanted to he could never shake the deep-rooted shepherd instinct. Maybe it came packaged with his Highland heritage.  
  
His thoughts drifted back to Sara again. She certainly seemed capable enough to deal with most any situation. He smiled as her image flickered in his mind. Hands on hips, feet placed wide, chin lifted at an obstinate angle, green eyes blazing with determination. She would, no doubt get the job done, no matter how daunting or abhorrent it proved to be.  
  
Though most of it was a blur, he thought about her hauling him off the ledge, and he winced as he remembered the pain when she dropped him. That memory was clear, unfortunately. He had no idea why she attempted it in the first place, but he was glad she had - grudgingly glad because admitting it forced him to concede that he needed help on this one. Sneaking up on another Immortal was virtually impossible. Without Sara he would have had to lead a one man cavalry charge against six. Chances of getting both Mei Lin and Kim out alive under those circumstances were dim.  
  
A flash of movement and a flutter of white cloth at the corner of the garage snagged his attention. He grabbed for the binoculars, and lifted them to focus on the spot. Someone ran from the end of the house. Long black hair streamed behind her as she raced for the Jeep. *Kim! Alive!* She moved so swiftly, he would not have noticed her in the shadows if it hadn't been for the white t-shirt.  
  
He let the binoculars drop. Swinging from the strap around his neck, they bumped against his chest. He barely noticed, as he reached for the bow. He pulled an arrow free of the tape that secured them to his waist. Fitting arrow to string, he pulled it back - ready to release it if anyone but Sara or Mei Lin followed. Kim disappeared behind the truck, then seconds later she reappeared inside. She ducked down in the back, and vanished from his sight. Closing his eyes, he whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. He didn't know if Sara had freed the girl, but Kim's release was definitely a good omen. He glanced at his watch. Time to begin the assault  
  
Keeping low, he ran from the cover of brush to the side of the house. His senses hadn't picked up Kroeger yet, so he hoped the thick log walls would shield him. When he'd shot the guard, the man toppled over the porch railing and into some bushes, but Duncan hadn't wanted to get too close before Sara had time to complete her mission. He had to gamble that no one would relieve the guard in the meantime. He hefted the dead weight, draped it over one shoulder, then carried it into the woods to dump it out of sight.  
  
Back at the edge of the yard, he did a quick survey of the grounds. All remained calm as he'd left it. He ran to the side of the house, hurried along the wall to the end, then craned his neck to peer around the corner. The deck ran past this room and around the large, high-peaked section that jutted out toward the lake. Sara had called it the great room. Great it may be, but it had too damn many windows. Duncan swore softly as he vaulted over the railing, then landed on the deck without a sound. Well, it wouldn't matter if they could see him, because Kroeger would sense him as soon as he stepped inside.  
  
****  
  
Sara flattened herself against the logs at the edge of the great room door. She didn't dare peek in through the glass to check out the situation, and she prayed that no one inside would look out. The sun had slipped below the level of the trees, leaving the deck drenched in shadows, but she felt completely exposed. Though the evening air had cooled, Sara's palms were slippery with sweat. *Come on, MacLeod.* She shifted the rifle from hand to hand, as she dried them on her shorts. *Let's get this show on the road.*  
  
She concentrated on the voices filtering through the door. The first one she could understand had a slight foreign accent.  
  
"Jackson, Go and relieve Richter."  
  
Austrian? German? Swiss? She couldn't place it. MacLeod had called the leader - the other immortal - Wolfgang Kroeger. The name combined with the reports of Swastika tattoos, meant the accent was probably German - not that it mattered. Analyzing the voices just helped pass the time. Helped keep her mind off the task ahead of her.  
  
She'd pressed MacLeod for details about this Kroeger, but he refused to say more. An expression of panic, bordering on terror, had flashed in his eyes when she'd handed him the picture. It had only lasted a millisecond, but MacLeod didn't strike her as a man easily intimidated. What events had passed between them, she couldn't begin to guess, but it couldn't have been pleasant.  
  
Though Kroeger's face had looked handsome enough, even through the binoculars, she detected a savage glint in his eyes and an aura of evil. Then she'd attributed it to a trick of light, but now listening to the cruel tone of his voice as he issued a simple command sent fear coursing through her. And the sudden chill came not from a slight drop in temperature.  
  
A mumbled agreement - too garbled for understanding - followed the command. A chair leg scraped on the wood floor. Heavy boots clumped. No rush, just a routine obeying of orders. Sara hoped Richter hadn't been walking the back deck. She held her breath, and snaked her finger around the trigger just in case.  
  
The footfalls faded toward the front of the house. Sara released the breath. MacLeod better be as skilled as he claimed. If he was still there, he was about to get company.  
  
Two minutes later, Jackson's voice poured through the glass door, again. Clipped. Precise. American accent. "Richter's gone."  
  
"What do you mean,*gone?*" Kroeger again. Cold. Slight trace of irritation.  
  
"Just what I said, Chief. Gone. I looked around, but I don't see him anywhere."  
  
A faint chuckle preceded the next comment. "Prolly went to take a leak."  
  
Mr. Mountain man. No mistaking that voice.  
  
"A man on duty never leaves his post," Kroeger said. Flat statement of fact. Teacher to pupil - a slow-witted pupil. "No matter what the reason."  
  
"Hey, nature calls - a man's got to answer."  
  
"Not one of my men." Definite irritation this time.  
  
Kroeger might need Mr. Mountain Man, but he obviously didn't meet Kroeger's strict standards. The immortal would probably kill when him when the primitive woodsman no longer served his needs. Sara could almost feel sorry for the guy - an expensive emotion considering what she had to do.  
  
"Go look for him ... and be quick about it." Kroeger again. "Whitman, check on Reynolds. See if he's missing, as well."  
  
Sara swore as she eased away from the door. Reynolds had to be the guard on the deck - the guard she had killed - which meant that Whitman might come out this way. Keeping her eyes focused on one door, she reached for the handle of the other. It slid open easily, but the slight murmur of the bearings seemed to blare like the crescendo of a Beethoven symphony.  
  
She slipped inside, and pulled it shut with one fluid motion, just before a man strode through the great room door and onto the deck.  
  
Inside the house, the voices were clearer. "Redmond - go check on the girl."  
  
"I just checked on her, Wolfie. She's fine ... snug as a bug in a rug."  
  
Now, Mr. Mountain Man had a name - Redmond - and Sara was in trouble if he obeyed the order. She took two long strides to cross the room, then pressed herself into the wall next to the room's other door.  
  
"Never question my orders." The sickening thwack of flesh meeting flesh sent chills ripping into Sara's gut. "I said, check on the girl ... now!"  
  
Redmond's slow clumping shuffle grew louder, and his grumbled oaths grew clearer. Sara held her breath and gripped the rifle. She detected a flicker of movement at the doorway, and struck. Bringing the butt of the rifle up, she smashed it into him wit h every ounce of strength she had. Her hands jerked as the blow met resistance, then with a sickening crack the resistance diminished. Mr. Mountain Man slumped to the floor with a faint gurgle and a loud thump.  
  
*Oh jeeze - that'll bring the storm troopers.* Sara tensed, waiting for Kroeger to rush into the room. Redmond groaned - a deep guttural sound. Sara struck him on the back of the head with the gun butt, then stepped over his legs and into the short hall that connected the room to the rest of the house. *Might as well meet the enemy head on.*  
  
****  
  
Kroeger's powerful aura enveloped Duncan as soon as he stepped through the sliding door and into Sara's bedroom. Knowing he had little time, and no element of surprise, Duncan shook off the flurry of vertigo and the disturbing tinnitus that accompanied it. The familiar buzz rendered stealth unnecessary. Kroeger knew he was here, now.  
  
He crossed quickly to the bed where Mei Lin lay bound, then sliced the ropes with four swift slashes of the Bowie knife. She trembled under the gentle pressure of his hand on her back as he helped her climb out the window. He whispered calm assurances that Kim was safely outside. He knew Mei Lin was a strong, intelligent woman. Though he hated to do it, he had to send her on her way alone.  
  
"Be careful," he cautioned. The minute Mei Lin's head dropped from sight, he yanked the drawer of the bedside table open. Shoving his hand into the soft cotton of Sara's panties and bras, he grasped the gun, she'd told him he'd find there. He glanced down at it as he strode to the door, and smiled. A 357 Magnum. Nothing like a little overkill. But since overkill might be necessary, Duncan whispered his gratitude to that scout leader who'd taught her to be prepared.  
  
****  
  
Sara braced herself for the confrontation, but the bang of a slammed door and Whitman's announcement diverted it.  
  
"Reynolds is gone too, Chief. Shall I ..."  
  
"Shhh," Kroeger commanded. "Someone is here ... in the house."  
  
Sara tiptoed to the massive stone wall of the double fireplace that separated the dining area and the great room. Whitman stood a few feet out from the corner. 220 "How do you--" he began.  
  
"Because I can feel him." Kroeger interrupted, his voice bristling with malice.  
  
Sara inched up until she could see into the room. Kroeger, standing in the center, spun to face her bedroom door. At the same second, MacLeod stepped into the room.  
  
"Well, well, if it isn't Duncan MacLeod!" Congeniality twirled, then settled like cloak around the malice. The normal tone of man welcoming a long lost friend. "You leave the door open and you never know who come will through it, do you? It's been such a long time."  
  
Whitman leaned forward. Sara didn't wait to learn his intention. She jammed the barrel of her rifle into his back. "Not a good idea," she said. "Drop the gun. Put your hands up nice and slow."  
  
MacLeod shifted his finely honed stare from Kroeger to her. A trace of a smile touched his lips, then vanished.  
  
Kroeger turned to face her. A broad smile curved his mouth into a shark-like sickle. "Ah, I see you've brought company. And such a lovely lady, too. You know, Highlander," he said, turning back to MacLeod, "I always admired your taste in women."  
  
Kroeger lifted the glass he held in a salute, then he took a sip of the amber liquid that swirled around tinkling ice. "You do seem to have a weakness for blondes," he continued.  
  
Sara bit her lip, and the hand holding the gun quavered. What was going on? Were they planning to catch up on old times, first? She wanted this whole mad situation over with, but MacLeod seemed to be caught in a spell. In one hand, he held her pistol harmlessly pointed at the center of the room; in the other he held his katana loosely by his side.  
  
"I remember that young woman in Berlin," Kroeger said, amiably as though they had gathered for an evening of chat. "What was her name?" He lifted his free hand to his forehead - a man deep in thought. "I've got it!" He snapped his fingers. "Marlena! "  
  
MacLeod tightened his grip on the sword and lifted it slightly. A muscle twitched at his jaw. His eyes focused on Kroeger, once more.  
  
"Such a pity - so young, so beautiful. You do have a way with women, MacLeod - she died screaming your name."  
  
Clear across the room, Sara heard MacLeod's low rumbling growl build to a roar. He lunged - his sword suddenly held high. Kroeger dropped down next to the sofa, then sprang up again, meeting the thrust with a sword of his own. Steel clanged against steel.  
  
But the scrape of rubber on wood behind her lifted the hairs on Sara's neck.  
  
"Sara, watch your back!" MacLeod shouted as he vaulted over the sofa.  
  
She looked over her shoulder. Redmond! His eyes blazed with anger. His jaw hung slack, and a rivulet of blood ran from his mouth into his beard. Whitman whirled, grabbed the rifle and pulled it out of her hand. Sara whipped her head from side to side, uncertain which was worse - the danger in front or the danger behind. Redmond advanced, his rifle gripped tight at waist level. The retort of a gun shot exploded over the cacophony of steel on steel. She turned toward the sound.  
  
Whitman dropped to his knees, then fell forward with a loud thud. The pungent smell of gunpowder drifted across the room. Duncan dropped the pistol, then kicked it along the floor to her as he retreated from Kroeger's next thrust. It skittered to a stop, too far to reach, and Whitman's body covered her rifle.  
  
Sara turned, again, as Redmond mumbled something unintelligible through his broken jaw. She started to back away, but he grabbed her. His callous-ridden fingers dug deep into her upper arm. She launched a rocket fist. With the normal support structure shattered, the hinge of Redmond's jaw gave as her fist smashed into it. With a loud groan, he relaxed his grip. Her knuckles throbbed from the impact. She shook her hand to disperse the pain as she stepped back out of reach.  
  
Swords still clanged behind her, but she couldn't afford the distraction. Redmond came at her again. She retreated. Her foot hit something soft, then she tripped over Whitman's body. She stumbled, but bracing her hand against the rough-cut stones of the fireplace, she caught her balance before she fell.  
  
Something hard bumped against her rib as she pushed herself up. The guard's gun! Eyes focused on Redmond, she grasped the unfamiliar weapon, and felt for the trigger. Redmond's eyes flickered to her hands. He lifted his own gun. Both fired simultaneously.  
  
The submachine gun chattered in her hands. Bullets flew wildly, eating into the wall. She tried to aim, but the jolting recoil made it difficult to control. The glass door shattered, then Redmond doubled over, as he reached for the glistening red line that suddenly marched across his stomach. He fell to the floor.  
  
Sara sucked in a deep breath, and grabbed instinctively for the searing pain that engulfed her left biceps. Her hand came away covered in blood.  
  
"Run Sara," MacLeod shouted. "Get the hell out of here!"  
  
****  
  
Duncan tripped over an ottoman, as he ducked the whistling arc of Kroeger's broadsword. He recovered just in time to parry the next slash. He muttered curses as he banged his shin against a coffee table. *Too much damn furniture!* He need open space.  
  
He pinwheeled the katana to hold Kroeger at bay, while he glanced over his shoulder to check if Sara had left. He caught a glimpse of her bloody arm just before she vanished from sight. A chill wind of concern brushed him, briefly. *She's strong and capable,* he assured himself. Didn't quite believe it, though he needed to. He lunged once, then jumped over the two bodies sprawled on the floor, and followed her.  
  
"Don't run away, MacLeod," Kroeger shouted. "We've unfinished business."  
  
Duncan skidded to a stop as he entered the large open cooking and dining space in the next room. A loud thud and some curses rumbled behind him. Apparently the furniture had fouled his opponent, as well.  
  
Seeking the door, Duncan swept a glance around the space. He found it ... and Sara. She stood at the counter on the far side of the room with her hand in a drawer. The contents rattled as she rummaged through it.  
  
"Sara! Get out - now!"  
  
She turned. Flashed him a smile. The object she held up for his inspection jangled. "Keys," she said, tucking them into the pocket of her shorts. "Gotta have keys to start the getaway car."  
  
Duncan spun to ward off the blow he sensed, rather than heard coming. Behind him, a door banged as it slammed into a wall. A wave of cool air washed over his sweat-drenched back. He followed the current as he lunged at Kroeger before retreating once more. Then he caught his heel on the end of an open staircase that jutted into the room from the loft above. He fell onto his back.  
  
Instinctively, he rolled to his side as Kroeger's sword hissed past his ear. The blade bit into the floor. As he scrambled to his feet, his hand slipped on something wet. He glanced down at the red smear on his fingers. *Blood! Sara's blood?* No time to think about it, now. He had to get outside where there was room to maneuver.  
  
Moving backwards, Duncan tried to remember the layout of the porch. Too late! Instead of solid wood, his heel came down on unstable air. He stumbled down the steps. Kroeger's sword sliced into his forearm as he struggled to regain his balance. Blood welled. Barely conscious of the pain, he ignored it. It would healin minutes, anyway.  
  
Out on the lawn, he felt in control again. Someone had switched on the outside lights, illuminating the driveway, and he could see Sara helping Mei Lin into the Jeep.  
  
With two hands on the hilt, he brought his sword down in a powerful arc that connected with soft flesh instead of unyielding steel. Kroeger grunted, stepped back, then skittered sideways to gain better footing. A growing patch of blood stained the sleeve of his tan jacket.  
  
He smiled as he retreated from Duncan's advance. "You could have saved her, you know," he said, slashing his sword in short arcs before him. "Saved her a lot of pain, if only you had told us where you and your friends were hiding those filthy Jews."  
  
Duncan fought off the wave of guilt that swept over him, as he swept his sword up toward off the next blow.  
  
Marlena had been an innocent - the braumeister's daughter, serenely waiting tables in the biergarten. She had no idea that he and Connor were helping Jews escape the Nazi roundups. He should have told her. Could have warned her. Should never have gotten her involved in the first place. But she was young, and pretty with a winning smile that shone like welcome beacon across the dark sea that swallowed Berlin in those days. She had sustained him then, and he needed her like he needed air to breathe and bread to eat.  
  
Kroeger seized the slight opening Duncan had left, as memories and guilt swirled around him - distracting him. He charged, slipping past Duncan's defenses. As Kroeger closed in on him, Duncan stepped back, and into a tree. Trapped, he brought his sword up between them, but he had no room to swing. The muscles in his arms quaked with the effort required to keep Kroeger's sword away from his neck. With their faces inches apart, they strained against each other.  
  
Kroeger's eyes bore into with the cutting power of a laser beam. Duncan could never forget those eyes. Never forget how hungry they looked as he'd savored Marlena's screams. Screams that burned with an agony far worse than any of the atrocities Kroeger had inflicted on him. Screams that echoed in his ears for decades. Screams that echoed still.  
  
Kroeger had forced him to watch while he tortured her. She'd pleaded with Duncan to make him stop. Begged him to tell Kroeger what he wanted to know, but Duncan couldn't do that. One life or twenty. The decision stood before him. Challenged him as nothing had ever challenged him before. He had to choose. He chose the twenty - and sacrificed the one.  
  
He'd tried to protect her when Kroeger's henchman broke into the hotel and dragged them from the warmth of his bed, but he couldn't fight them all. He swore she knew nothing, but Kroeger didn't care. To him she was merely a means to an end. A wedge to pry information from him. In the end it didn't matter. Duncan had sealed her death warrant weeks ago, when he'd returned her smile as she poured beer into his glass.  
  
Fierce blue steel anger pooled in the pit of his stomach. It fed on the vivid aching memories and it exploded in a firestorm of strength. Duncan flung his arms wide, knocking Kroeger to the ground. His broadsword fell from his hand. Gripping his katana in both hands, Duncan regathered his strength to deliver the finishing blow, but the loud chatter of an automatic weapon and the flare of pain in his right thigh immobilized him for an instant.  
  
He clenched his teeth against the searing pain. He willed the muscles in his leg to hold him upright as they threatened to surrender to the wound. He swore and staggered as Kroeger scrambled out of range.  
  
Armed with his sword, once more, Kroeger shouted to the man who had just burst through the brush. Intent on the battle, Duncan had lost count of the enemy. He had let the last man slip to the back of his mind. A grave mistake.  
  
"Get the women," Kroeger shouted, then he returned his attention to Duncan, striking immediately. "This one is mine!"  
  
His sword sliced through the lean muscle of Duncan's stomach, deep enough to make him gasp, but not deep enough to stop him. Duncan lunged. His leg gave with the pressure, but his sword found a home in his enemy's shoulder. Off balance, they fell together. Rolled. Jumped to their feet. Circled, each looking for a weakness - any opening. The throaty rumble of a car engine broke their concentration. Duncan glanced to the left. Kroeger looked as well.  
  
Sara slammed the door, then whirled to face Jackson. Behind her the Jeep lurched backwards, tires squealing as it spun away in a cloud of dirt and dry leaves, then the chatter of guns blasting swallowed the fading sound. Jackson fell ... so did Sara.  
  
Duncan threw off the urge to run to her side. She would live, but he wouldn't if he didn't pay attention. He turned back to his own battle seconds before Kroeger did. That was all the advantage Duncan needed. Katana held shoulder high, he tightened his grip, stepped closer, then spun his whole body in a deadly pirouette. He barely felt the resistance as his sword sliced through Kroeger's neck.  
  
In the slow aftermath of anger spent, he reversed his spin. A step took him closer to his vanquished foe. Looking down, he stared for a moment into the eyes of his enemy. They would wear that expression of surprise for all eternity. He closed his own eyes expecting to savor relief. To feel a surge of satisfied revenge. He felt nothing. Nothing but dense coldness. The cold of the dead. Until he remembered Sara.  
  
He turned. Staggered across the lawn. Willing his legs to move faster. Wanting to reach her before the Quickening took him. He didn't make it.  
  
Preceded by a rumble of distant thunder, the white mist rose from Kroeger's headless corpse. It spiraled and whirled, encircling him, enfolding him in its fog-like fingers. Ethereal fingers with the strength of giants - the strength of ages. The phantasmagoric storm burst over him in a shower of sparks, and white hot blinding pain sucked the breath from his lungs.  
  
Jagged bolts of dazzling light cut deep, searing his soul. They crackled and roared as they danced around his head. They sizzled and thrummed along his nerves. And they lit the blackened sky with a violent display of lightning.  
  
Potent energy-charged waves shook him. Took him. Brought him to his knees. A tree cracked, snapped, split, then burst into flame. Behind him every pane of glass at the front of the house shattered one at a time in a frenzied sequence.  
  
Then the blistering agony ebbed. Sublime rapture poured into the void. The power of good met the power of evil head on in an ancient struggle, clashing as waves in a storm-tossed sea. The good triumphed. Pure power melded with pure power as the quintessence of Kroeger joined with Duncan's own soul. Sweet sating ecstasy flowed over him. He trembled as the energy of it filled him, consumed him. Joy, exultation and supreme satisfaction soothed him. Healed him. The power belonged to him. It possessed him, as he claimed it. Claimed it as his prize. Claimed it as his birthright.  
  
There can be only one. 


	6. Promises to Keep Chapter 6

Duncan lifted his head into the silence - deafening silence where there should have been the soft concerto of night sounds. His body ached, yet the aches contained not pain, but satisfaction. Not agony, just relief. He sat still for a moment, as his heartbeat returned to normal. A soft breeze chilled him as its cool breath brushed across his neck and his sweat-soaked shirt. Slowly, he stood, closing his eyes to ward off a crest of dizziness.  
  
Then he remembered ... *Sara.*  
  
Spent, drained of all energy, he staggered across the yard without conscious thought. At her side, he dropped to his knees. With gentle hands, he scooped up her warm, limp body, then pulled her into his lap. He cradled her in his arms. Cradled her as he had cradled the bodies of other women. Women who couldn't come back to him as Sara would. *Little Deer ... Tessa.* Women he'd loved more than life itself. Women who died before their time. Who died before he was ready to let them go.  
  
Tenderly, he brushed silk strands of hair away from Sara's face. With the tail of his shirt, he swabbed a smear of blood from her chin. He lifted her hand in his, kissed her finger tips, her knuckles, then he pressed her hand to his chest as though he could transfer the beating of his heart to hers.  
  
Did he love this woman? He didn't know. Could he love Sara MacKensie, who'd been willing to fight at his side for reasons she could, but partly understand. Maybe. Maybe he could. They had faced danger together and survived - an intoxicating combination. Emotions tumbled, tossed, and clashed. The maelstrom gave him a headache. He was too exhausted to deal with it. He only knew that a force deep within him welled up and flowed out to her. Plenty of time to answer those questions later.  
  
He rocked her gently, waiting, knowing his patience would be rewarded. Knowing that beneath her blood soaked clothes, the wounds had already begun to heal. Then her body tensed in his arms. With a sharp inhalation, she returned from death. He smiled.  
  
"Welcome back."  
  
She blinked, wet her lips with a swipe of her tongue. "MacLeod?"  
  
"Yes,"  
  
"I'm alive?"  
  
Closing his eyes, he nodded. "Yes, you're alive."  
  
"I'm not dead?"  
  
He gazed down at her, the smile spread into a grin. "No, you're not dead."  
  
She struggled to sit up, he helped her. Pushed her gently upright with his hand on her back, then he slid his hand up to wrap his arm around her shoulder. He pulled her close, as he shifted to sit beside her.  
  
A racking cough bent her double. He massaged the base of her neck, until she recovered.  
  
"It hurts like hell, MacLeod."  
  
He laughed softly as he pulled her close again. "It usually does."  
  
She pulled her legs in, encircled them with her arms, and rested her chin on her knees. She turned her head slightly and narrowed her eyes.  
  
"I was definitely dead?"  
  
"Most definitely dead," he confirmed.  
  
"You got credentials, MacLeod? Are you qualified to make this medical diagnosis?"  
  
He shook his head. At least her mind was fully functional again. He felt an argument coming on. "I've lived for over 400 years. I know about Immortals. That's all the credentials I need. Would you like me to kill you again to prove it?"  
  
She shuddered. "No thanks, I think I'll take your word for it."  
  
He laughed. "How kind of you."  
  
She smiled, then crinkled her forehead as she frowned.  
  
"So you're telling me that I'm ... Immortal ... like you."  
  
"By George, you've got it."  
  
Sara punched him lightly in the arm with her fist. He laughed, as he leaned back to avoid a follow up punch. She dropped her hand, yanked a few blades of grass from the ground, then ran them through her fingers for a moment. "So did I get this ... this Immortality thing ... from hanging around with you?"  
  
The laughter rumbled up from deep inside him. He wrapped his arms around her, hugged her, then rubbed his knuckles across the top of her head. "It's not catching, you silly goose. You've always been Immortal. You just didn't know it."  
  
She pulled away. "But you did." She rolled to her feet, perched her fists on her hips, then glared down at him. "You knew all along ... and you didn't tell me."  
  
He stood, faced her. "I knew," he confessed.  
  
She spun away from him, and stomped off a short stretch. "You knew," she said, keeping her back to him. "Knew and you didn't think it important enough to tell me." She whirled back and charged him with her fist held high. "Why I oughta--"  
  
He grabbed her fist as she came within range. "Ought to what?" he asked, softly, unable to hide his grin.  
  
She pulled back her other arm, fist cocked and loaded, then her body shook with the force of a massive giggle that burst up from within her and spilled out in a spasm of laughter. She wrapped the arm around her stomach to hold it in. "I ought to kill you MacLeod," she sputtered, then collapsed into another fit of giggles. She backed away, one arm across her stomach. One hand at her mouth. "But it wouldn't do any good."  
  
She turned slowly, then spread her arms wide. "I'm alive!" she shouted, laughing as she whirled.  
  
Duncan stepped up and caught her from behind. He pulled her close, and held her. "Yes, you're alive," he whispered into her hair. Hair that still smelled like a spring meadow even after all they'd been through. He kissed her ear, moved his mouth down to kiss her bare neck.  
  
She turned into his kiss, then she stopped. Stepped back from his arms. She stared wide-eyed at the front of her house. "Jeeze Louise, MacLeod ... what the hell happened to my house."  
  
Duncan turned to share her view of the devastation. No pane of glass remained intact. Singed leaves and blackened branches marred most of the bushes. Black soil mixed with terra cotta shards and limp geraniums littered the porch steps. And one very large blue spruce lay felled, just a few feet from the garage.  
  
How could he explain? He scratched his head, and scuffed his toe in the dirt. "Ah ... it was the Quickening."  
  
Sara turned to look at him. "Quickening? What the hell is a quickening?"  
  
He glanced back at the lifeless lump that had been Kroeger. He could barely make out the shape of the head lying just past it. She had so much to learn. He had so much to tell her, but he was far too weary to begin now. "It's an Immortal thing," he replied with a smile and a shrug.  
  
He snaked an arm around her shoulder, and towed her along as he moved toward the house. "Come on. We have some phone calls we should make, then I'll help you clean up. I'll explain it all then."  
  
Sara stopped, turned to face him. "Do you have any idea how much it's going to cost to replace all that glass?"  
  
He had no clue, but he would be willing to bet that it would cost plenty. He shook his head.  
  
"It's going to cost a fortune," she said, placing her foot on the bottom step. "I sure hope you've got insurance."  
  
"Insurance?"  
  
"Yeah," she said with a big grin. "You know, insurance ... quickening insurance."  
  
Laughing softly, he stepped up to join her. "I ... ah, don't think they sell Quickening insurance."  
  
"You don't think they sell it. But you don't know for sure - you never thought to ask?"  
  
"No, " he said, picturing the expression on the insurance agent's face. "But don't worry, I'll p--"  
  
"You're at this ... this," Sara interrupted, sweeping her hand to indicate the damage, "For 400 years ... and you never thought to ask?"  
  
"No," he repeated. What was her point? "I never thought to ask."  
  
She turned toward the house, raised both arms to the sky. "Men," she said. "Mortal ... Immortal - you're all alike - you never plan ahead."  
  
THE END 


End file.
